The broken seal
by Farangis01
Summary: The good news travels slowly but the bad ones have wings, Narsus thought at the words of the panting soldier fell breathless on his knees in front of him and Arslan.
1. The message

**The broken seal**

 _ **Note of the author**_

 _Hallo everyone. First of all, I beg your pardon_

 _for my no perfect English, but I wrote this story_

 _in my mother language Italian and apologize for_

 _rough translation._

 _Any suggestion to improve my English is wellcome._

 _This story is an old inspiration of mine and I'd like_

 _to share with other people who love Arslan and his_

 _friends._

 _Thank you for reading._

 **1\. The message**

The good news travels slowly but the bad ones have wings, Narsus thought at the words of the panting soldier fell breathless on his knees in front of him and Arslan.

The young Shah jerked violently. Jumping up from his seat he scared Azrael, the falcon settled on his perch next to him.

Farangis, silent and vigilant as always, shared a puzzled and alarmed gaze with Alfreed at her side.

Jasvant seemed to lose for a moment his usual stoic poses and focused a penetrating gaze

on the messenger.

" Disappeared ?! " exclaimed Arslan incredulously, his clear eyes wide open in an expression of dismay. " How can five hundred men disappear? Kishward must have an explanation! "

The soldier bowed down to touch the floor with his sweaty forehead. " My lord ... when I left Peshawar, General Kishward knew nothing more than what I just told you. "

" It can not be ... " Arslan murmured, pulling himself back almost imperceptibly, without even realizing it, as he wished to get away from the reality that Kishward's message forced him to face.

In the glare morning, that lit up the room from the large terrace open to the east, the young face of the Shah appeared paler than ever.

" Elam, please bring some water to this gallant soldier " ordered Narsus, determined to prevent the subsequent Arslan's reaction, which he guessed from the trembling of his shoulders. " May I suggest to your Majesty to go in person to Peshawar and lead reinforcements to Kishward? " he asked approaching his sovereign.

Arslan seemed to understand. He raised his head and turned toward him. He nodded, composing himself. " I accept your advice. I'll go to Peshawar and let you come with me " replied.

The strategist bowed. " At your service, my Lord. "

Arslan glanced at Elam, standing near the soldier, to whom he had brought a bowl full of water. The man was sucking greedily, so great was his thirst. Elam reciprocated Arslan's gaze with an expression of approval in the eyes.

" Thank you, Narsus " the young Shah finally said and sat back down. Azrael cooled down on its perch and started to clean the feathers of one wing with the sharp beak.

Narsus nodded. To remind Arslan that now he was the Shah of Pars and could not allow to himself any sort of impulsive reactions or, worse, emotional, sometimes it was required. Not often, fortunately, since Arslan was a smart guy, but on some occasions it was necessary. Especially when he was hit in his affections. And that was one of those events. One of the most serious.

The soldier gave back to Elam the empty cup and thanked the boy. He was covered with dust,

mud and sweat. His facial features contracted by fatigue under the beard neglected for days. He had reached Ecbatana along the distance between Peshawar and the capital of the kingdom in less than half the time normally requested from the trip. In the effort, he killed two horses and exhausted the third, which collapsed foaming in front of the eastern gate of the city, opened on the Great Continental Road.

" What about Qbad? " Arslan asked in more controlled tone, when the man had caught his breath.

" Marzban Qbad has been bad wounded, my Lord " replied the soldier downhearted.

" Who can be able to defeat Qbad? " Alfreed snapped, unable to overstay and totally forgetful of the etiquette, which should impose to her to stay in silence in presence of the Shah and his advisers. " He is one of the best and strongest warriors of Pars, who could be able to much? "

" Who or what? " Farangis sayed, darkly.

" What do you mean, Farangis? " Arslan asked.

Jasvant moved the first time, turning his head toward the lady warrior.

" I do not know exactly, I just have a foreboding. The Djinn are restless, something is disturbing them " the priestess replied, evasive.

" We are all only too disturbed! " Alfreed snapped putting the hands on her hips.

She totally ignored the shocked expression of Elam as also the gesture of Narsus which was imposing her to keep quiet, indeed the girl snorted impatiently.

" In short " she sayed: " Kishward asked from Peshawar for reinforcements, in order to restore the peace on north-eastern borders with Turk and Turan, due to a some sort of mess going on there. In response, we send Daryun leading 500 horsemen to give a hand to Qbad, as if it were nothing more serious than put in their place a band of marauders too bold. After all, who else entrust the mission if not him, because he knows those places better than anyone among Marzban?

"And now, Kishward send this messenger to say us that Qbad was seriously injured in a misterious battle against _not you know who_ , and even Daryun would disappear with his five hundred men without leaving any track?!

" I can well imagine that the Djinn are restless! I'm more than restless, because I can not believe Kishward wants play us a bad joke or he is drunk! So, if we're done talking, we could move and go see what the hell is going on! " She concluded and breathed loudly in resume breath.

" Thank you, Alfreed. A perfect synthesis of the situation " Narsus sighed, raising eyes to the ceiling.

" Go you first and get out of the way " hissed Elam, addressed to the girl an arsonist look, instantly reciprocated by a grimace of the young.

" Alfreed is right! " Arslan exclaimed, standing up again. " We are wasting time. Let's go quickly! "

" There is still something I have to tell you, my Lord " said the soldier. " When I left Peshawar, General Qbad seemed delirious. He kept repeat that he has been used as bait to attract general Daryun into a trap, and can't find peace for hading let himself be deceived so easily. "

" A trap? " asked Arslan, leaning toward him, fists suddenly tightened.

" Yes, my Lord. The noble Qbad says that to attack him were men not belonging to any of the tribes of the people of Turk or Turan. Thery were people never seen before, and then ... " the man looked around, uncertain to proceed or not.

" And then? Go on, you can talk without any fear " Narsus pressed and something inside him confirmed to the strategist that his instinct has been right to want meet the Kishward's messenger without the presence of others than Arslan and his most trusted companions.

The man hesitated, then finally spoke. " The noble Qbad says there were some sorcerers... " spake lowering his voice. He stopped, shuddered and again looked around as if he feared the shadows in the corners of the room.

" Sorcerers?... " Arslan repeated in a shocked whisper.

A shiver ran through everyone. Azrael stopped preening its pens and reared up his head.

Narsus pursed his lips and moved a half step, without realizing it. " Qbad would see sorcerers moving underground? " Asked a dry voice. No one in room thought he was joking, as well as doubted of the affirmation of Qbad, reported by the messenger.

The soldier nodded. " Yes, my lord Narsus. General Qbad said the sorcerers shown themselves when general Daryun and his knights reached the battlefield. He also says that ... that soon after everything is blanketed in a thick fog and it was dark how at nightfall.. "

A very unladylike imprecation escaped Alfrida's lips but no one noticed, not even Elam, open-mouthed, hands clenched on the tray with the metal cup.

" As in Atropatena " Gieve said from his corner, where he had been all the time hidden among the curtains, behind the silent Farangis. The priestess not answers, but bowed his head slightly forward, the dark look.

" As in Atropatena ... " Arslan repeated in a choked voice, while the memory of all the atrocities of the old battle, the carnage of Pars's army, lits his eyes of a horrified light.

" Please, keep calm. Qbad is injured and may have been only hallucinations " Narsus interjected firmly, attracting upon himself the attention of everyone. He was not sure to believe to his own words more than his companions, and felt the hearth squeezing in the chest in seeing the dismay of Arslan's gaze. Imposing himself to maintain ontrol, he turned back to the messenger. "The news that takes us from Peshawar are very serious, soldier, and I thank you for the superhuman effort you did to get here as quickly as possible. "

The soldier nodded, prostrate.

" Don't tell anyone else what you just said to us " ordered Narsus, all the severity of the situation contained in the dry tone of his voice. The strategist turned again to Arslan. " I'am arranging now an official communication for the notables of Ecbatana, but this information should not be disclosed, or chaos will break out.

" Please, convened the Marzban remained in the city, your Majesty, and choose one that is ready to moving this afternoon with its ten thousand knights. We have to go to Peshawar, and we must do it soon. "

" May the gods wish that it's not too late " Arslan whispered, looking to the sky on the open terrace to the east.

His companions were silent, even in their silence was contained the same prayer.


	2. A song in the dark

A song in the dark

Smoke. Smell of smoke, but not of fire or blaze, rather a kind of herbs burned. Pleasant, maybe. weird, but not unknown.

A sound. A voice? a dream? And then the pain. Pain that is not feeling, but it's there and presses against the senses, like a tidal wave, barely restrained by a rickety dam.

In the whirl of a chaotic welter of confused feelings, Daryun attempted to raise one hand to his aching forehead, but he couldn't.

He insisted, because it was not like him to give up, and barely realized had dragged his naked arm on something that was not the cold, bare earth he expected.

What? a piece of cloth? the fur of a blanket?

Where the hell was he? Where were his men? Where was Shabrang, his trusty steed?

Heart began beating heavily in his chest. Blood warmed veins and opened a chink in the delirium that darkened his mind.

Qbad. What had happened to Qbad?

Daryun opened his eyes. Dark. It was surrounded by darkness, or had he lost the sight?

This thought worried him and again he attempted to rise one hand to his face, but this time someone held him back.

In sensing the grip on his wrist, Daryun snapped instinctively. All his muscles tensed in the effort to fight back, but the only thing that he got was to blow up the pain in every fiber of his body. The only light he saw was the red-hot lightning that flashed through the skull.

He stifled a groan through clenched teeth, and falls back.

He attempted to get up, but the hand that he had sensed on the wrist was pressing now on his breast, fresh on the burning skin, and held him down.

Unknown fingers grazed his sweaty forehead, from one temple to slowly slide on cheek, the gesture, it seemed, of someone who wished to reassure him.

Only then, Daryun heard the sound of the softly sing of a warm and kind voice.

A woman's voice singing a song without words, or at least no words that he could recognize.

What language was that? And who the hell was that woman?

Daryun forced himself to reopen his eyes. There was a glimmer now, as it were lit an oil lamp in the mist veiling his view and did not allow him to distinguish anything more than a vague figure bend on him.

In vain Daryun tried to focus the figure, now moved aside keeping firm one hand on his chest, to prevent him from trying to get up again. Confusedly, it seemed to him to notice something strange, as if the woman was wearing one headgear elongated upwards, in an unnatural shape. Something shone on it, maybe a row of gold jewelry, or other, giving the impression that a small flame ascended straight like a thin snake.

However features of the unknown's face remained unreadable to his confused eyes. Daryun only noticed, or thought to notice, that they were not the features of a Turk woman, or in any case of the eastern lands.

His military training, programmed to take notes on the fly of all things useful to control the situation, was no more helpful for him.

In any case, he was not absolutely able to control nothing.

At least not yet.

Daryun attempted to speak. He would want to ask who she was, what was of his soldiers, where he was, but voice refused to go out from his parched throat.

She seemed to have understood that he wanted to say something and bent again on him looking at his countenance, as if expecting to hear his words.

Or so Daryun thought, until he noticed the small burner essences, smoking of the odorous substance already known, that the stranger woman was approaching to his face, always softly singing her mysterious lullaby.

She wanted to stun him, not hear what he was trying to tell her!

Daryun tried to pull away from her. He had no intention of being again put out of game, but, weak as he was, she held him back with ease.

She smiled, or so thought Daryun before the darkness swallowed him again. A benevolent or malevolent smile, however he could not distinguish it, always that a smile there had been.

Slowly, Daryun felt the pain withdraws from his body, pushed back from that same drug that also faded his conscience. Stubborn, he tried to rebel, and held out the muscles that instead wanted to relax.

A stab of throbbing pain was the only reward to his stubborn attempt. Anyway he wanted to remain alert. He wanted to know where he was, and especially what had happened to Qbad and to their soldiers and even to his horse; and, moreover, also where were finished its clothing and armor, not mentioning his sword.

He had wish to curse, but he had no voice.

Furious with himself and his weakness, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers on the one thing he did not know to be cloth or whatever.

He could not let himself win, he must inform Kishward about the trap in which they had been attracted, and, above all, he must warn his Majesty Arslan of the enemy that threatened him and his own kingdom, so painstakingly regained.

Narsus. He had to inform Narsus.

Had to ... he had to do too much. He could not allow to that woman to reduced him to impotence.

But he could not help it. Despite all his strength, in him every spark of consciousness was slowly being faded.

In a semi-final spark of lucidity, he thought to hear a vague amazed note, almost disgruntled, in the lullaby sung by the unknown woman, as she was surprised and, at the same time, annoyed with his stubborn not wanting to let himself go.

He sensed then, as last thing, her fingers sliding on his forehead, his temple, cheek, neck, as she were drawing something.

Then everything became nothing.


	3. The duty of a King

**The duty of a king**

The nomadic raiders of eastern borders needed a lesson, and Shah Arslan the Liberator would give it to them. In his own person.

This, in summary, was the sense of the Narsus's communication to citiziens of Ecbatana.

All people of the city were gathered to admire the beloved king leave the royal capital with his five thousand Immortals of personal guard, and marzban Lucian at the head of his ten thousand knights. Among them, the lieutenant Isfan, young and bold, evidently eager for an opportunity to gain the title of Marzban, which has been already of his brother, the brave Shapur.

A show to that no one would want to forgo.

It was the first time the young Shah was leaving the royal capital at the head of his army, and everybody did want to assist.

Preceded by general Daryun few days before, Arslan was going to remember to the marauding of east that Pars kingdom was not a ground for their raids. Freed from the invaders, pacified internal conflicts and more united than ever, Pars had returned to be the prosperous, beautiful reign of the past.

Now it was time for the turbulent eastern neighbors to take note of this and stay quiet in their place.

With the spirit of who acclaims his king, who is going to meet a victory already expected, the people of Ecbatana greeted the Shah Arslan the Liberator, as he went out from the Eastern Gate of the city, riding his white stallion caparisoned in gold, at the head of the army of his knights, sparkling of weapons and armor, made a brilliant save under the flapping of the banners, accompanied by the deafening echo of the battle horns.

Just some people noticed that this departure seemed a bit 'too hasty, and that to refresh the memory to eastern marauding, Kishward and Qbad, both already in Peshawar, should have been more than enough. Not to say of Daryun, the Arslan's legendary Black Knight, who should have been arrived in Peshawar from days with five hundred men under his command.

Some voices ran perplexed among the people, but these were little more than whispers under the enthusiastic shouts of greeting and cheers shouted loudly, in a roar that drowned the thunder of horses' hooves on paved road and the clang of weapons of the knights.

Finally leaving the city behind, Narsus was sure any doubt would was soon forgotten by people, in resuming their daily activities. Well, if it had not been, it would have remained still only a concern of the sharpest among the inhabitants of Ecbatana. Perplexity that he hoped to dispel as soon as possible, first of all, arriving in Peshawar without leaving behind a city gripped by fear of a new war.

" So, is it possible to know what is going on, in reality, Narsus? "

The strategist was not surprised by the question of elder Lucian, who rode now at his side after having approached him in silence.

" I don't know yet, but hope to find out soon " he replied, and noticed the movement of Arslan, who turned slightly toward him, then return to look forward.

" Our Shah is very tense " insisted Lucian , " bad news from General Daryun? "

" No, actually we have not heard from him. Indeed, to be more clear, we have no more news of Daryun and his five hundred horsemen." Narsus looked back at Lucian who was staring at him, the elder warrior evidently uncertain of the meaning of what he had just heard. " It seems all of them disappeared into thin air. "

The white mustache of Lucian rose up like porcupine needles on elder warrior's face. " You're kidding! "

" Not at all, and if I make word of this with you just now is because it was not the case to send round a news like this in Ectabana, don't you think so? "

" I would have been well able to keep reserved the information! " Lucian snapped, his eyes angry.

" Narsus's decision to hide the truth has been approved by me, Lucian " interposed Arslan and held the horse letting Narsus and the marzban approach him. " Forgive me, but I agreed with him that he spoke only once that we were on march, out of Ectabana, and not for lack of confidence in you or other officers. "

Lucian bowed his head at the words of his king, but his expression said that he felt anything but satisfied, although he didn't dare to ask the reason of that decision.

" In truth, there's not much to talk about, since I don't know what's going on " Narsus added, frowning, his eyes staring straight ahead.

" We preferred that no one knew, not even you, because nothing, not a gesture, nor an involuntary expression, could somehow let doubts arise alarming the population. "

" To come to know that the marzban Daryun has disappeared into thin air with five hundred horsemen is something very alarming, I agree. Anyway, It could be helpful for me now to know the details of Kishward's message, given that, to this point, it seems clear I was referring a version that I have to define at least _incomplete_ " said Lucian with a certain coldness in his voice.

His unusual tone caught the attention of Isfan who raised his head to look at the general, and then Narsus and Arslan share together an expression of assent to something.

" The little wolf has sharp ears " remarked Gieve, addressing to Farangis who was riding at his side.

As confirmation to the minstrel's words, Isfan turned toward him with a feral look.

" I don't think it's time for unnecessary quarrels between us, Gieve " said Farangis harshly. " Therefore, please avoid silly jokes, if you can. "

Gieve shrugged and looked away from Isfan. " All nervous, huh. "

" Why, you're not? " retorted Alfreed from behind. " Yet, you too saw those disgusting sorcerers... " she could not finish the sentence, speechless instantly at the darting of Farangis's eyes.

" There are things that you should not talk lightly! " admonished the priestess, more severe than ever.

Alfreed had a contrite face and continued to ride in silence.

" Yes, we are all really nervous " Gieve muttered, peering sideways Farangis, her face closed as always.

Ignored by the priestess, the minstrel sighed and looked up at the horizon of rocks that loomed ahead of them, where the fertile and irrigated land surrounding Ecbatana gave way to the arid eastern desert. In the distance the cloud dust, raised by Elam and Jasvant with the squad of soldiers sent them on ahead, already indicated the next change of the land.

In the sky, the winged figure of Azrael was drawing bold geometries in flying.

" I go " suddendly announced Farangis. She put spurs to her white horse and in a bound she was at Arslan's side. The young Shah and Narsus had just finished to inform the complete Kishward's message to a shocked Lucian.

" Hey! Wait for me! " cried Gieve and, without delay, the minstrel spurred his horse behind the priestess.

Alarmed by the sudden decision of Farangis, Alfreed quickened to achieve them.

" I'm going " Farangis repeated.

The senior marzban looked puzzled at her. " Where ? " he asked.

" The Djinn are showing me a way that you and your army can not follow " Farangis asserted, without answering the question.

Arslan understood immediately the priestess's intentions. No need for other words, he pulled sharply on the reins and his horse shied, puffing nuisance in stopping.

Lucian automatically raised his hand to stop the army behind them. Soldiers obeyed as one man to the repeat of the gesture by the other officers through ranks.

" I'm with you! " Snapped Arslan. " Lucian, I leave you the command and ... "

" No, my Lord! " interrupted Narsus firmly. " You can not. You must reach Peshawar, and you must do so by leading your men. "

Arslan pursed his lips and frowned.

"What are you talking about? " Lucian asked, confused. " The venerable Farangis is not thus coming with us to Peshawar? "

" I'm going to seek general Daryun " Farangis replied, with the tone of someone who does not wait

any approval to her decision. " The Djinn will lead me to him, and the way that they are indicating, does not pass from Peshawar. "

" Oh, well ... then I'm coming with you, my enchanting Farangis " joined Gieve , " I have no desire to come back already to Peshawar. And then, of course, the path indicated by your Djinn will be more interesting than the comfortable, pleasant Great Way Continental. "

Farangis glared at him, but said nothing. Alfrida shocked her head.

" Farangis, you believe ...? " Arslan paused, lowered his gaze for a moment and then lifted again his eyes on Narsus, but he found on his face always the same firm expression. Knowing he cannot do otherwise, the young Shah surrendered. " So be it. Take Gieve with you, and any other you consider appropriate, I don't want you to go alone. "

Farangis nodded. " I don't need Gieve, but, if he wants, he can come with me. In any case, I know, he would follow me " she said with indifference. The minstrel bent his head, ironic. " Give me Isfan, my Lord, he can be useful. I don't need anyone else. "

Arslan did a nod to Lucian ordering him to call Isfan. The marzban executed promptly, although with the expression on his face of someone who does not understand.

" You are ordered to go with the venerable Farangis " said Lucian to the young man, approached quickly.

"Where? " Isfan asked, surprised. " We're not going to Peshawar? "

" Maybe later, now we make a little detour, chasing rumors of the wind " replied Gieve, with a sly smile.

" What the hell are you saying? " growled Isfan.

" Are you sure to want these two with you? " asked Narsus approaching Farangis.

" Isfan would be enough for me, the other, however will not be a hindrance to me" replied the priestess, with a faint tinge resignation in her voice.

" We will reach you from Peshawar " promised Narsus. " Please, be careful and... " he stopped in the effort to keep calm his tone of voice, hiding his ansiety. " Be kind Lady Farangis, find Daryun for his Majesty and me, and tell him that it is a bit 'too early to retire: we still need him.

Farangis's lips curled into a slight smile. " I'll tell him, lord Narsus "

" I'll find him, don't be afraid " assured the priestess turning to Arslan, then she urged her white mare, and leapt forward, beyond the ranks, immediately followed by Gieve, who just shouted a greeting to Alfreed and moved a gesture of farewell to Narsus and Arslan.

Isfan not stayed behind.

The dark gaze and frowning face, Arslan looked at them go and deviate from Great Road Continental, in the direction of the first desert hills, north-east, dry humps ocher against the blue sky.

" You could not go with them, your Majesty. Your duty as the king is to lead your men. You can not abandon them to seeking just one. Whoever he is " said Narsus, at low voice, to be heard only by him.

Arslan straightened on his saddle and raised his hand. The army shuddered behind him.

" To Peshawar, so! he said harshly. " Warn men: we will go on in forced march. I want to reach the eastern fortress within two days. "

" Your Majesty! " Protested Lucian with a jolt

" You heard the order, Lucian. Send it! " Imposed Arslan, and lowered his hand pointing fingers outstretched, as if to pierce an invisible enemy.

The marzban swallowed unladen and repeated the gesture, transmitting to the men the command of their Shah.

In silence, Narsus nodded to himself. He felt a sense of regret thinking that Daryun was not there, to see the new step their little prince of a time had just done on the road to became the great King that both of them already knew one day he would become.


	4. The shadow of the mountain

**The shadow of the mountain**

" Let me go, Kishward! And send out of the way these bone-saws! " barked Qbad, pushing brutally the two doctors, who were trying one to restrain him the other to treat the ugly wound that tore at his broad and muscular chest.

The commander of Peshawar avoided the doctor, who almost had tumbled on him, pushed away by the warrior, and he grabbed for a Qbad shoulder, forcing him down. The man snarled in pain, but Kishward did not release the pressure of his arm on him.

" You don't serve me to nothing in this state, Qbad. Calm down! "

Qbad gritted his teeth in a fierce expression. On his face, disfigured by the scar across the left empty orbital cavity, his only eye flashed with repressed fury. " Those men who dragged me away ... cowards ...I'll tear their guts! "

" They obeyed to Daryun's order to retreat " retorted Kishward for nothing intimidated, unlike the two doctors, who were remained on the sidelines, without the courage to approach again.

" Daryun's order? It was not to him they had to obey, but to me! I am their commander, not Daryun! " roared Qbad, always struggling to get up, heedless of pain.

" You were hurt, and your men decimated. Retreat was the only reasonable choice. If you'd stayed, you'd have died in vain" retorted Kishward.

" NO! " yelled Qbad and grabbed his friend's arm. " I've seen all of them disappear in that damned mist, Kishward! All disappear! Do you understand ?! Such Atropatena. Worse than Atropatena! " A spasm of pain twisted his face, but he did not abandon his grip. Qbad clenched jaw and his voice came out from teeth, almost growling. " It was a trap, and we have fallen into it like two idiots, Kishward. Destroyed villages, merchants attacked and massacred ... everything was planned ..."

" You're delirious, Qbad " said Kishward frowning. He looked at the massive body of his friend

covered with wounds: the muscles under the sweaty skin, were trembling in agony suffering. " You two! give him something to calm down, before he kill himself! " he ordered, turning to the two doctors who did no sign of wanting to approach.

" Stay away from me! " snapped Qbad and left Kishward's arm, always struggling to get up. " I have no intention to kill myself. I can do it, Kishward. Let me go to seek for Daryun. I am the last one to have saw him ... I know where to look ... I know WHAT to look... "

His face hardened into a stony expression, Kishward pulled away from the hurt man and let him still tried, unsuccessfully, to get up. He did not move, until he was finally forced to grab Qbad, to keep him from tumbling awkwardly to the ground, out of bed.

Qbad glared at him with his one eye. In front of Kishward's silence and, as mirrored in his merciless gaze that showed all his weakness and impotence, the mighty marzban seemed to calm down and finally take note of its inability to do anything.

" Give me a drink ", finally muttered Qbad, letting himself fall on the pillows.

Kishward nodded to the two doctors to provide wine. " We are seeking them, Qbad, and you can be sure that we will find them. Nothing in this world can disappear into thin air, certainly not five hundred men with their arms and horses. "

Qbad had an inarticulate sound, like a sarcastic laugh " I would have told the same, if I had not seen all of them disappear with my own eyes " he said. "Who did you send? "

" Zaravant. "

" Zaravant ?! That greenhorn?! " Snapped Qbad. He attempted to rise again, but once again he failed. Instead fell backward, growling a blasphemy.

The doctor who had approached carrying a cup of wine, backed precipitously.

" Zaravant is young, but not a greenhorn " retorted Kishward. " Now stay quiet and let the doctors take care of you. I sent a messenger to Arslan in order to inform him about the _incident_. I am sure his Majesty is coming here in Peshawar.

Qbad raised both hands to his face sinking the fingers through his thick and disheveled dark hair. " " You can bet ... Arslan will fly here faster than his hawk " muttered.

Kishward took the cup from the hands of the doctor and handed it to his friend. " I want you to repeat everything to him and Narsus, but without swearing. "

Qbad grimaced, reached out and took his cup. He drank greedily, letting the wine flowed on his chin, dripping from the sides of mouth.

" Zaravant is patrolling the place where you were attacked, and Daryun has been missing together his men. Jimsa of Turan is with him. I hope they will manage to find something that can help us to understand what happened " said Kishward, severely gesturing again to the doctors to return and take care of the wounded warrior.

The two men approached silently with caution.

" The fog? " Asked Qbad, returning with bad grace the cup emptied to one of the doctors.

" Now it's completely disappeared. Since this morning, there is no more trace of mist. So I hope the research will have greater success than as happened so far Kishward replied, approaching the window. The warm light of sunset lit up his face. " Jimsa knows the places, but did you told Zaravant to search that drawings I told you about? " churches Qbad . Kishward nodded. " Yes, I told him. "

Qbad lifted himself up on an elbow, pushing away the doctor who tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead. " You believe me, Kishward, don't you? Do you believe me when I tell you that all this mess is the work of black magic ... "

The commander of Peshawar raised his face to look at the horizon tinged with red, and his eyes rested on the dark unmistakable silhouette of Mount Demavant. The sinister dormant volcano seemed to threaten the dome of the sky with his highest sharp peak , aimed as a skeletal finger over the clouds.

" I believe you, Qbad " replied Kishward, in a low voice.

He frowned, lowering his eyes on the movement of men and horses who he saw were approaching to the fortress from distance, along the way. They carried some carts, and on those carts there was what he expected, and feared having to see.

Kishward moved to leave the room, even before he heard the officer's voice to call him. He left the room without another word, leaving Qbad at the care of doctors, without telling him that Zaravant was returning, and he had found something.


	5. The gorges or Khojir

The gorges of Khojir

Gieve, half asleep from exhaustion for the long sleepless night, woke up with a start in feeling the horse slip under him.

The minstrel barely had time to throw away the dying torch, free the leg from the stirrup and jump off to the side, before ending up with the animal, along the steep edge of the crumbling muletrack. A strip of pebbles and earth, barely visible in the pale glow of the gray dawn, which hardly made its way through the dark, heavy clouds of a leaden sky.

Isfan, in front of him, wrapped in his cloak to protect himself from the intense cold of the night, turned to look at him with frowning eyelashes, without stopping. Farangis, leading the meager company, pulled straight as he had not noticed anything.

"Go ahead, do not worry about me, I'm fine" shouted Gieve, in a cheerfully ironic tone, busy tugging her steed out of the reins, trying to bring him back to the path where, left on the ground, the torch was turning off in a cloud of acrid black smoke.

The animal whinnied and rose on its hind legs, kicking stones and dust in the air. Grabbed by the bite, Gieve managed to pull him down and make him regain solid ground.

Isfan shrugged and looked again in front of him, but now he drove his horse more cautiously, stumbling over the shaky stones. To better illuminate the dangerous edge of the path, he lowered his torch, which flame was now languishing about to turn off, after having burnt for the whole endless night of walking.

"My enchanting Farangis" called Gieve, bringing his animal tired and still frightened by the bridle, "I will have to compose a song to celebrate our last adventure. Going along the wild paths of the Khojir gorge is already a daring challenge during the day, but doing it at night ... well, it's a heroic undertaking!"

The priestess gave no sign of having heard. Straight on saddle, her gaze drawn forward, as if concentrated on something that only she could see in the mist, beyond the pale circle of light projected from his agonizing torch, Farangis listened attentively to the feeble voice of his Djinn.

Looking at her, Gieve caressed the quivering face of his horse. He felt the sweat of the beast dampen his hand and the breath, struck by fatigue, of the animal reached his ears in a gasp.

"Courage, my friend," he whispered. "We are all tired, but we still can not stop. At least so decided our guide." He sighed blatantly and raised his voice. "Anyway, I hope she will change soon her mind, because we are

so exhausted, all of us, that we risk to frustrate our heroic undertaking tonight, ending fatigue deaths!

He sighed even louder and went on plaintively. "How sad, to die here, among these bare and sharp rocks. The crows will catch our eyes and the jackals will gnaw at our bones, but, worse than anything, no one will hear my artistic composition."

"This could be the only positive aspect, instead" Isfan snapped, nervous.

Gieve was about to reply when Farangis turned. "Endure," said the priestess, uncovering her face from the edge of her white cloak, pulled over her head. "We have to move fast now, as long as we are on the rocky ground. Here the necromancers moving through the earth are not able to use their magic: the stone is an obstacle they can not cross. Later on, however, we will have to use more caution. Although the enemy's eyes are aimed at our army moving towards Peshawar, it is not excluded that its spies may notice us."

Without waiting for an answer to her words, Farangis dismounted and turned off the last fire tongues of the torch into the dust. "We do not need the fire anymore," she said. "Turn off your torch, Isfan and dismount you too. We proceed on foot, to give the horses some breath."

The young man promptly obeyed. As soon as he got out of the saddle, he thrust the steaming tip of his torch into the stony ground and turned it into the dust, until it died out in a last puff of black smoke.

"Venerable Farangis, who is the enemy you speak of?" Isfan asked, "From your tone do you seem not to refer to some clan of foreign marauders, and who are these necromancers? You know them, don't you?"

"Oh, we know them all right!" answered Gieve, who had reached him while remaining forced behind by the path too narrow, to allow the passage to two horses side by side."We have already seen them at work, long ago, but we did not think they would be made alive again, now that the Holy Sword Rucknabad is in Arslan 's hands."

Isfan gave him a questioning look. "The Rucknabad Sword? What does that old relic have to do with these necromancers?"

With a theatrical gesture, Gieve raised his eyes to the sky now more clearer in the morning, though still heavy with dark and threatening clouds. " What ignorance!" he exclaimed. "Will I have to sing for this young goat the ancient poem of his ancestors ?!"

"Not now, Gieve!" Farangis interjected in a stern tone, preventing Isfan, who had already opened his mouth to reply to the teasing words of the minstrel.

"In fact, do not talk about this," the priestess warned. "Words can be dangerous, the names lethal. Avoid attracting attention to us, even only by evoking things that should not be named."

Gieve smiled at Isfan's obvious concern. The young man, dumbfounded, was now looking around with the guarded making of a wild animal that has sensed an invisible danger.

"You are right, as always, my enchanting Faragis" the minstrel spoke again. He frowned and his eyes became dark. "Just tell me one thing: are you really convinced that Daryun is still alive? I would be sorry to have to end my composition with his eulogy."

Farangis raised a hand to caress the sweaty neck of his white mare. "I have faith we will find him, Gieve" she replied, then turned to the minstrel and a light burned in her eyes, "and I do not despair he lives. You know well that this is not the first time General Daryun faces a demon."

Gieve's smile became gloomy, while the minstrel bent his head, while Isfan turned his gaze perplexed from one to another, without understanding what the two were referring to.

"Do you mean that noble Daryun has already fought against these necromancers?" asked the young man.

"Yeah, and not just him," Gieve answered, smiling now slyly at the boy's surprised expression. "I know that in our nice excursion on the Demavant of a few years ago, to solve a problem we have created another... maybe worse."

"You, on the Demavant?!" Isfan exclaimed in amazement.

"Why are you amazed? Did you think Arslan had found Rucknabad in his backyard?" said Gieve, more ironic than ever.

Isfan blushed, but Farangis's voice cut off his protest in his throat.

"Silence!" ordered the priestess. "You do not have to ... " the phrase was broken by the dark rumble that suddenly vibrated in the air, like a roll of boulders in the bowels of the mountain. A shivering tremor, ran through the earth. Rubble and dust rolled from the ridges on the path.

The horses neighed and discarded, frightened. Rolling eyes in their sockets, the three animals began to paw and snort, biting the brake.

Isfan pursed his lips, uncovering his teeth like a wolf, pulling his bridle hard to keep his horse from running away. "What happens ?!" exclaimed and his voice was lost in the deafening silence that enveloped everything.

A flock of birds arose from a dry scrub bush in a whirring of wings to which suddendly echoed a frightful roar that seemed to come from the very heart of the mountain.

The earth winced as if prey to violent convulsions, which detached rocks from the ridges in a precipice of boulders and crushed stone, in an avalanche of stone. The three on the path grabbed their beasts and sought shelter, however precarious, by throwing themselves against the side of the wall above them.

Crawling against the stone wall, which seemed to wriggle like a living thing, in the spasm of the earthquake, Farangis, Gieve and Isfan tried to reach a cramped hollow in the mountain, not far from them. The terrified horses were struggling, threatening to escape at every instant, and they seemed to dance a strange dance of death on the jolting path, where the pebbles wobbled like spirits in a cloud of suffocating dust.

A sharp crash overwhelmed for a moment the frightful roar that stunned men and beasts. Gieve barely had time to look up and see the avalanche of rock come off the wall and fall on them.

The minstrel left the reins of his horse and jumped forward with a cry of alarm. He grabbed Farangis by waist and Isfan by the neck, dragging them in a spasmodic race towards the miserable shelter, now a few steps away. The horses escaped to opposite side and disappeared in the landslide of rocks and earth that hit the path in a shapeless mass.

The earth winced and twisted for a long time, before settling down with a final violent convulsion, then all was only silent and clouds of dust.


	6. Tavan Bogd

Tavan Bogd

The wave of the earthquake made the tents tremble and, before it was over, many of the pots placed on the fires were shaken, hanging on the chains, to the point of overturning the flames below their smoke content.

Tavan Bogd frowned, seeing his people's breakfast goes lost in part, and he didn't take any comfort at the thought that this was the worst damage the camp had suffered.

For that day his people would have to count on one reduced meal, as no other food would be prepared until evening, when the camp would be mounted again for the night. What now it had remained in the pots would then be shared among all, leaving many stomachs dissatisfied. Starting from his, sighed Tavan Bogd, and already he seemed to hear his tummy grumble.

Tavan Bogd made a gesture of exorcism in the air and uttered ritual words to quiet the spirits of the subsoil. The horses, small and vigorous, continued to agitate and moaned nervously for a while, locked in the fence of piles, after the interminable shake finished and the echo of landslides lost in the remote gorges of the mountains.

Earthquakes were not new to Tavan Bogd. He had suffered many of them in his long existence on the highlands, although he had to recognize that this was one of the most terrible he had ever lived. The earth's tremors, however, did not worry too much him neither nor his people: they were nomads, they had no houses of dry mud and wood, or stone buildings that could collapse on them, as instead the sedentary peoples of the south.

Tavan Bogd observed the women recovering the recoverable of the food scattered on the ground, being helped by the children and scolding at the same time the most discoles, who swallowed what they could recover. Tavan Bogd raised his voice

profound and authoritarian in a harsh rebuke, addressed to the little rascals, whom immediately became quiet and obedient. The women gave him smiles and looks of gratitude.

Tavan Bogd was the leader, the good Father of the clan. Beloved and respected by everyone, he led his people since many springs and never had anyone discussed his decision. Not even when he had welcomed into the family the light-haired foreign girl with wide gray eyes, that now, young woman, officiated the sacred rites to propitiate good fortune and cure the ills of men and animals.

She had the gift of communicating with the spirits. It was thanks to this that she was been saved, alone and lost, on the frozen plateau, on the north, where they had found her, abandoned by her own people, perhaps frightened by that

her special being, which Tavan Bogd and his clan discovered soon in their turn.

The old shaman Ake Kule immediately recognized one of her lineage in the child, and endorsed Tavan Bogd's decision to adopt her in the family without delay. He had indeed taken her with him, and learned in their language and in the ancient tradition. Thus, when it was time for Ake Kule to reunite with her ancestors, the light-eyed girl had succeeded her, inheriting the symbols of power.

Ake Kule had given her the name of Ay Jana, and the girl had accepted it, soon forgetting what her previous name had been.

Ay Jana was a good daughter, Tavan Bogd said to himself, turning to look at the young woman in her red and white ritual dress, with the high headgear decorated with gold, sprinkle the newly erected mound with smoke of sacred spices.

A good daughter, but above all a powerful shaman.

She had always acted well, every choice had been right and had brought prosperity to her people. This time, however, Tavan Bogd feared that Ay Jana had made a serious mistake.

After the ritual, Ay Jana raised her arms to the sky and abandoned the last remnants of ashes in the wind, thus completing the final gesture of the sacred ritual, which the earthquake had just interrupted shortly before. The shaman then turned and, without looking back, headed for the nearby camp.

With long, quiet strides, she reached the wagon on which her tent was, and climbed up disappearing beneath the skins stretched out on the wooden circular structure.

The men who had worked on the mound quickly dispersed. They returned to the camp, where they began to tinker around the tents, which the women had already taken to empty, loading the little that contained a bit 'on small covered wagons with rough wheels of solid wood, a bit on some of the horses.

Only three men remained near the tomb. They did not belong to the clan.

They were taller than the people of Tavan Bogd, whose robes they wore, and stood gloomy, with their heads bowed. One was on his knees, prostrate on the ground, the other two supported each other.

Tavan Bogd first observed them then the mound of fresh land. Soon the tender spring grass would have covered it with a soft green carpet, where small blue and white flowers would bloom here and there.

The bodies of the men that the mound guarded would have nourished the new life with their flesh and their bones, while the spirits of the dead would have reached their ancestors. Or at least this Tavan Bogd, who was a good man, wished the poor unknown dead, buried in the cold desert of that land foreign to them.

Parsian warriors: this was the three men still alive and what they were the four men that his people had buried, along with their weapons and horses, as the tradition of the highlands clans imposed.

What had brought those warriors so far from their country? Tavan Bogd wondered, for the umpteenth time since, led by Ay Jana, he and the hunters had found them, wounded among many others already dead, on the edge at the extreme edges of the mountain.

Talking with them was impossible, since no one in the camp knew their language, and they ignored his clan's dialect. They certainly were not there to invade Turk, in such small numbers. Rather, they seemed to have been dragged along during a battle, such as those lands had not seen since the days when gods and demons shared the world with men.

Those newly buried warriors were certainly not gods, Tavan Bogd said to himself, shaking his head as he moved away from the mound, but, without doubt, demons were those who had massacred them without mercy.

Ghouls, to be exact. Tavan Bogd had heard of it, but had never seen them before. Beings half men, half beasts, their corpses were everywhere, among the dead warriors.

The warriors of Parsia were well defended. Worthy of their terrible fame, they had brought to hell many, if not all, their enemies.

Rescuing them was a mistake, Tavan Bogd repeated, dejected. There was something obscure that persecuted those men. Something that had pushed the ghouls to attack them, when they never attacked armed men, but only ravaged caravans and helpless villages, when hunger made them crawl out of their dens, in the desert mountains.

Yet Ay Jana had led him to them, thus obliging him, by virtue of tradition, to lend them help and welcome as guests.

She would never do anything that could harm her people. Tavan Bogd was certain about this, but at the same time could not reconcile his belief with the fear that foreigners would bring misfortune on their heads. As if that were not enough, the violent earthquake of just before had all the air of a great ugly presage.

As he approached Ay Jana's cart, Tavan Bogd watched the tall, mighty black steed that was bound to it. An animal very different from the small tawny pony, enclosed in the paddock. Even without the harness, it was easy to recognize in it a war steed of the royal cavalry of Parsia. One similar to those that Tavan Bogd himself had killed at dawn, according to the ritual of tradition, so that they would be buried in the mound with their deceased masters.

The four warriors, whom Ay Jana's efforts could not save, would make the journey through death riding their horses.

So tradition dictated, and so the clan had honored the fallen foreigners.

Tavan Bogd carefully approached the black steed. The animal, not at all friendly, already snorted and scrabbled the ground with its hoof, its ears dangerously stretched backwards and its eyes burning like molten gold.

It was a better sign, Tavan Bogd told himself, cautiously holding out a hand to caress its muscular neck, while with the other he held out the sweet morsel he had brought for it. Suspicious, the horse sniffed the food and studied it for a long time, before deciding to accept it.

Tavan Bogd laughed softly and raised his empty hand to touch the warm snout of the steed, but it shook his head and flinched back. The head clan turned back, to respect the animal. It was a very strong beast and was recovering quickly from the cruel wounds that had been inflicted on his hips and chest. Long gashes in the living flesh, as if the animal had been clawed by some beast.

Ay Jana had healed his wounds with wraps and magical drawings, carefully traced on the black and shiny horse's fur, and it seemed that both were working well, given the speed with which the animal had previously escaped death and now he was healing.

With a last look at the steed, now intent on studying with his bright, gold-colored eyes, the six ponies the clanmen were attacking at the poles, Tavan Bogd climbed into his adoptive daughter's wagon and entered his tent of skins and canvases wool.

Immediately he was enveloped by an intense and pleasant aroma of herbs and spices. Ay Jana, who had certainly heard him, continued her work without paying any attention to him.

In respectful silence, the clan chief sat on the carpet and watched the girl's wise fingers, soaked in a magical ocher mixture, draw spells on the body of the Parsia warrior, lying unconscious in front of her, on a mattress of soft leathers.

He did not like that young man, Tavan Bogd decided. He could not have said why, but he had the distinct impression that he would have been a source of trouble for his clan, whether he survived or not. He had not liked him since the first moment, when, believing he was dead, he had lifted him off the ground with his hands and discovered with surprise that he was still breathing.

Tavan Bogd looked at the medication of herbs and spells that covered the wound in the foreigner's chest. A strange wound, he noticed, different from what he had seen on the torn bodies of the other warriors: it was as if someone had tried to tear his heart out.

Then he thought of that shapeless thing he had seen near him. Like a pile of burnt rags, from which there were strange calcified bones, in which the young foreigner's sword was stuck. If that was the "thing"

that had tried to kill him, as Tavan Bogd imagined, well, it had paid dearly for its attempt.

Tavan Bogd drew a spell in the air with his fingers. He certainly did not like that young man and the more he looked at him, the more he regretted having saved.

He had several scars, the worst one it was the one on his right hip. A sword caused it. A very bad injure, thought Tavan Bogd and something said him that whoever was who caused to that young warrior such injure, should'nt manage to escape without any harm from the fight with him.

In spite of his age, he was an experienced warrior, a formidable leader, the chief clan, told himself. Once it had recovered, it would not have been easy to keep him at bay, in case it had been necessary. And Tavan Bogd was not sure he wanted that man to recover.

As lured by the voice of his thoughts, Ay Jana turned and smiled to reassure to him. Tavan Bogd, however, did not return her smile. Instead he got up and left the tent.

The chief clan came down from the cart shaking his head. He would have liked to say many things to his adopted daughter, but when she had looked at him with her eyes as transparent as water, he had understood that whatever he had said would have been useless.

Ay Jana would have saved that stranger so dangerous, he had read it on her face, and he should not have killed the beautiful black horse to let him follow his rider in the afterworld. But this was a meager consolation, because he had no doubt that those who had led the demons to slaughter the warriors of Parsia actually aimed at only one of them: the one still alive in the hands of his daughter. And he seriously feared that they would come to reclaim his heart.


	7. Ash and blood

Ash and blood

Gieve still felt the taste of dust in his mouth. He took a sip from the flask of skin and forced himself to swallow. He would have preferred to spit, but there was no need to waste water in that desert of stones and dry land.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and handed the flask to Isfan, at his back. At the same time, he gave him a look.

The boy was not good, but he could have been worse off. Under the landslide that the earthquake had plunged on them, they had lost his horse, killed by the boulders, and Isfan had remained with a leg badly stuck in the debris.

He'd been lucky to get away with just a broken ankle, Farangis had said after having treated his wound and bruised the fracture. Isfan, however, was not of the same opinion, and now he was silent, with long face, behind of Gieve. He accepted the flask and drank almost with rage.

"Do not get mad" Gieve said, "you're still alive."

Isfan looked at him badly. "Alive and useless," he muttered.

"This was you even before you broke your leg" said Gieve and smiled amused to see the other blush with rage.

"Be quiet, both of you" Farangis intervened, "you behave like children." She held back his mare and let Gieve reach her.

Farangis's clothes were dirty and tattered cloak, some scratches marked her face and she had wrapped a bad cut on her left hand, hit by a sharp stone.

"No one here is useless. Not even you, Gieve, since you saved our lifes, "said the priestess.

The minstrel bowed on the saddle, carefully not to hurt his shoulder bruised under the landslide. "I'm glad to have served you, my lady," he answered ironically.

Farangis ignored him and turned to the wounded boy. "I had not chosen you for your legs, Isfan, but for your instincts. Do you feel something?" she asked, vaguely pointing all around.

The boy looked at her as if he had not understood, then he shook himself and raised his face to sniff the air. Not to be outdone, Gieve imitated him.

"There's a strange smell," Isfan said.

"I hope not to be me, in any case not even you have a good smell" answered Gieve, and raised his hands in a gesture of peace at Farangis's frowned gaze. "I was joking."

"Apart from your smell, always unpleasant, there is something else" Isfan said, and began to smell the air with force, so that the comrades could hear him inhale from the dilated nostrils. He suddenly frowned and stopped sniffing,

withdrawing slightly. "I smell old ash and stinks of corpses."

Gieve looked up at the clouded sky, looking for traces of smoke and silhouettes of vultures in flight, but he did not see them. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Very sure!" exclaimed Isfan, irritated by the doubtful tone of the other.

The minstrel turned to Farangis. "Your Djinn what do they say? Do they too smell stench of death?"

"The Djinn are silent, I think they have moved away. Here there is something they does not like and prefer to avoid" replied the priestess. "I feared it would happen, that's why I wanted Isfan: I need you to guide me, until the Djinns come back to talk to me."

"Essere allevato dai lupi ha i suoi vantaggi", sogghignò Isfan.

"Glielo concedo" rispose Gieve, sorridendo conciliante.

"Guide us there" ordered Farangis.

Isfan nodded and indicated to Gieve the direction to follow, among the humps of the ground. The minstrel gave a spur to the horse, pushing it forward. Farangis followed him.

Leaving the gorges of Kohjir behind them, the three riders entered the rugged, arid and wild plateau, rapidly approaching the border with the territory of Turk and Turan. Already they saw before them the stony hills rising, beyond which the lands traveled by the nomads extended and ran the Great Northern Road, the Golden Way, which led to the distant mountains of Altai, where they were said to flow rivers from the sparkling waters of the precious metal.

First they sensed the smell, now perceptible to all three, growing louder, then, after having passed the highest hump met up to that moment, they saw it: a camp of merchants, or rather what was left of it.

They seemed to have been surprised in their sleep, and they were all dead: men; women; children; animals. Nobody had been spared.

Gieve held back a nausea; Farangis raised a flap of the cloak to protect her nose and mouth from the unbearable stench; Isfan uncovered his teeth in a silent growl of rage.

Corps lay everywhere, scattered on the ground. Miserable bundles of rotting flesh and shattered bones between ragged clothes and stained with blood and viscera. Someone had tried to defend himself, as it was seen from the grotesque poses of the bodies contracted in agony, but it had been a vain struggle.

The fire-blackened poles of the tents, torn and burnt, looked like funereal monuments erected to that obscene carnage.

Everything was wrapped in a sort of gray haze, low and heavy, as if the residual smoke from the fire that had destroyed the camp could not be dispersed in the air, almost the spirits of the dead were clinging to it and treating it down, together to their bodies, in a desperate refusal to get lost in nothingness.

None of the three knights of Parsia uttered a word. Looking at all that devastation, the first thing they noticed was that the trunks containing goods and money were intact. No one had touched them, scattered among the ruins of the tents or the chariots. Whatever the reason for so much violence, it was evidently not to be sought in the lust for gold of the bandits, or caravan raiders.

The three warriors pushed the frightened horses forward, forcing themselves to observe the wounds that ravaged the dead bodies, in an attempt to understand who or what had killed them. Many did not even look like wounds inflicted by weapons, but rather they appeared similar to gashes opened by cruel sharp claws.

Finally, they saw it.

The first to see it was Farangis. It looked like the body of a man taller than the others, but it was not. There was something alien in that mass of flesh and bone, which made one think of some strange wild beast.

The priestess invited Gieve to follow her. She had to force her mare, it was snorting and shaking his head, to direct the recalcitrant step toward the strange corpse. The animal obeyed, but arrived a short distance from the body, it put his paws on the ground and refused to go on, as did Gieve's horse, on the point of go mad by terror, barely restrained by the minstrel.

"A ghoul!" Gieve exclaimed.

"A what ?!" Isfan echoed, stretching his neck to see over Gieve's shoulder.

"A ghoul" answered Farangis. Dismounted and walked over to the inert body, which seemed to growl at her with his sharp teeth like those of a wild beast, uncovered on the scarified skull. "A creature that should not be here." She added.

"Half-man half-beast," said Giève, disgusted. He also dismounted, but continued to firmly hold the reins of the horse, which tried to retreat. "My lovely Farangis, do you really have to get close to that shit? he asked the minstrel, concerned to see the priestess lean over the dead body.

"To kill him it took many saber slashing, but he did not die right away: he dragged himself up to here, perhaps trying to get away," Farangis asserted, ignoring the call of Gieve, intent on observing the body marked by deep wounds, that tore the bare skin, covered with dark and bristly hair. "They must have hit him in more men. They had great courage."

"It did not help them much, perhaps they would have done better to escape," Gieve replied, turning his gaze on the bodies of the men scattered around.

"Words worthy of you," Isfan muttered.

"They died for nothing," Gieve replied. "I do not approve of useless sacrifices, but I do not expect you to understand, my young, stupid soldier." He loosened the reins and the horse immediately backed away, forcing Isfan to cling to the saddle so as not to fall.

The boy tightened his jaw and gave the minstrel a flaming look. He did not answer, but from his expression, Gieve realized that the question was only postponed. The minstrel shrugged nonchalantly and returned to follow Farangis' movements.

The priestess had turned around the body of the ghoul, climbing over the muscular arm stretched out on the outside with the hand clawed open, palm covered with calluses facing up. Farangis studied what was left of the face, more like a monkey's snout, eyes wide open to show the sky the whitish globes without iris.

"Look here" she said suddenly, pointing to the monster's forehead with her forefinger.

"I would rather not," answered Gieve, to whom the stench of the rotting corpse was causing nausea to rise beyond the limits of control.

"I want to see!" protested Isfan, unable to dismount because of his broken ankle.

With a grimace of disgust, Gieve pulled the horse's reins, forcing it to move a couple more steps forward, then turned the horse, so that Isfan could see what Farangis wanted to show them.

"It looks like a tattoo ..." the boy observed.

Gieve also looked at him, and he twisted his mouth as he felt the bile rising in his throat.

On the scarred forehead of the ghoul, still visible on the torn skin flaps, appeared some lines that the minstrel could not decipher. Even so, however, he seemed to recognize some design.

"Snakes" Farangis said and it was as if her voice had opened the two companions's eyes, who in turn finally recognized the symbol half-erased..

A fatal name flashed in everyone's mind, but neither the priestess nor the two men uttered it. The three looked at each other, then turned their eyes all around and it was then that they noticed the same symbols drawn everywhere with ashes, fire and clotted blood.

Farangis returned quickly to her mare and grabbed the bridle. With a leap she was on the saddle.

"Let's go away," she said.

"Very gladly" answered Gieve, who had already climbed in front of Isfan. "Now I understand why there are no vultures or crows to feast on these bodies, and even the jackals have not taken advantage of lunch already served. This place is cursed and not even the beasts want to approach. Your Djinn could warn you, my lovely Farangis, rather than sneak away."

"Their silence was already a warning," Farangis replied, freeing the reins to leave the mare free to run away. The animal snapped forward, like a long-held spring.

Gieve's mount followed it immediatly and Farangis with her companions galloped away from that fatal theater of death.


	8. The tattoed girl

The tattooed girl

Ghouls were everywhere. Figures beastly, vaguely human, that seemed to take shape from the fog itself suddenly dropped to hide everything. And then the necromancers emerged from the earth.

The ghouls obeyed the sorcerers with all their blind, fierce violence.

It was no longer a battle: it was a massacre.

Men fell, one after another. Those torn to pieces by ghouls, those who have been hit on treason by sorcerers. There was no armor that could withstand the claws and superhuman strength of the ghouls or the bewitched lances of the necromancers. None, not even his one.

The black armor that had saved his life so many times. Forged by the best craftsman of Ectabana, with a technique whose secret the man had brought with him to the grave. Some thought it had been forged with a metal alloy and spells, and sometimes he thought it too, when he felt the armor repelling an arrow thrown at him or resisting the impact of a sharp spearhead.

Certainly must have thought it the necromancer who had sunk bewitched fingers in his chest, as if to wring his heart with his bare hands, with the result of finding himself with clutches stuck in the armor black metal, unable to reach his goal.

With the painful sensation of feeling again the wizard's cold fingers penetrating into the flesh and touching his beating heart in his chest, Daryun jerked. He clenched his right hand, as if he were still gripping the hilt of the sword he had stuck into the necromancer's body until he had passed it from side to side, and he opened his eyes wide.

Suddenly he found himself staring at the ceiling of colored sheets, supported by poles and boards of what he recognized as some foreign tent, lit by the flickering golden light of some oil lamps.

The mind, though still confused, gave him back with ferocity all the memories of those same events that had tormented him in delirium as if they were nightmares. Through the veil of suffering and dizziness that dulled his senses, Daryun remembered everything, since he had reached Qbad with his men and the unnatural mist that had imprisoned them had fallen, when the sorcerer had tried to kill him.

The last thing he remembered was the face of the necromancer, disfigured by the scars of those who were supposed to be self-inflicted wounds in some obscene ritual. A horrible face, twisted in an expression of fanatic hatred, which spat on him the last breath, as fetid as the breath of hell.

Daryun shuddered and lifted a hand to the point where the sorcerer had wounded him, instilling poison in his veins. He managed to move, though a bit 'with difficulty, and was not too surprised to discover the greasy substance that covered almost the entire left side of his chest.

Someone had medicated him. He remembered a vague figure of a woman bent over him; a song and a scent of burnt herbs. The same that he smelled even now, all around, although more tenuous. Attracted by a feeling of warmth, Daryun turned his head to the side and saw burned a little brazier, not far from the bed on which he was lying.

Following the smoke escape upward, Daryun watched the sky glisten in a gray patch through the circular opening in the middle of the ceiling. Trying to clear his mind, as much as he could at least understand if it was dawn or sunset, he raised his arm to bring a hand freeing his forehead from the hair he felt fell on his face, but stopped when he saw the strange signs drawn on the skin.

He turned his arm, looking puzzled at the ocher signs running from his wrist to his shoulder. He looked down and turned his head. He had the same designs on his left shoulder and on the other arm. Then he remembered, as if it were a dream, the impression of unknown fingers running on his body to draw mysterious symbols.

Where was he ended up?

He tried to get up. He hurt himself, but he managed to turn aside and lift himself up on his elbow, but only to fall back on his side, at the edge of the mattress of skins he was on, unable to get up again. He held a moan of pain and struggled to remain conscious, feeling he was about to lose his senses again.

He closed his eyes, stubbornly resisting dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. He stayed awake, or so he thought, until he opened his eyes and found a young woman, dressed in white and red, kneeling beside looking at him apprehensively, but who he did not remember hearing come.

Daryun realized that she was talking to him. He did not understand her words, spoken in a language he did not know, but he recognized her voice. It was she who had cured him and intoned the song that had been impressed in his memory too clear for having been caused by delirium.

With an effort that cost him a sharp pain, Daryun managed to pull himself up again, albeit slightly. Immediately the woman put her hand on his shoulder to gently push him back, so that he would come back to relax. She smiled at him, as she took something from the small leather bag she wore on her belt, and nodded as if to tell him that everything was fine and that he had to stay calm.

But he had no intention of staying calm and let her drugs him again.

Suddenly Daryun grabbed her forearm with a snap of his hand, locking it before she could lift up what had taken from the small bag.

Perhaps he was more violent than he wanted, because the stranger was frightened and tried to withdraw, looking at him now with surprise and fear. In any case, Daryun did not have time to realize what the girl had in her hand, nor to feel sorry for frightening her. A small, stocky man was on him, roaring something he could not understand, and certainly he would at least have broken the arm with which he held the girl, if she had not rushed forward, to get in the way , raising his free hand to stop the man in a gesture full of authority.

The man grunted and stepped back. Daryun let go of the girl and drew back, returning the glare in which the other was staring at him.

Without taking his eyes off him, sitting aside on the colored carpet that covered the planks floor, the man addressed some words to the girl and she answered him in a calm but firm tone. The man then raised his hand and spoke again, his voice rough as he pointed to the general of Parsia with a gesture that made Daryun think he was pointing to a poisonous snake.

There was authority in the man's manner, but there was authority also in the young woman's attitude, Daryun observed. And while their discussion took on a rather animated tone, it was easy to see that he was the reason for their questioning. Finally, the girl pronounced a sentence that seemed to be definitive and turned, without taking care of the man who snorted and took on an air that was anything but resigned.

The girl pointed to herself and smiled. "Ay Jana" she said gently.

Daryun looked at her. Apparently she was the one in charge, at least in that tent.

She must have been in his early twenties; rather small; the eyes of an unusual gray-water color and brown hair gathered in a braid that fell on her left shoulder. She had a face with regular features and a pale complexion. She certainly did not belong to the same ethnic group as the man, who still scrutining him keeping an eye on his every single breath. Low and corpulent, with the typical somatic characters of the nomadic people of the north-east, the black and small eyes, the thin cut, and the skin of the yellowish-colored face stretched over the pronounced cheekbones.

"Ohi!" said the man recalling Daryun's attention and, when he turned to look at him, he pointed to himself, beating his chest with a fist. "Tavan Bogd" roared, then waved hand in a gesture of invitation that had something peremptory.

Daryun sensed that the two had just introduced themselves and now waited for him to pronounce his name. The girl waited patiently, but the man showed a certain impatience, and looked at him like he was an idiot who could not understand even such a simple thing.

"Daryun," finally replied the general of Parsia, and saw the man who had indicated himself as Tavan Bogd frowning and becoming thoughtful, as if he were rolling that name in his mind similarly to a closed box, of which he could fear the contents.

Ay Jana instead smiled again and, with a slow and measured gesture, showed Daryun what she had taken from her leather bag: a square of hemp cloth, impregnated with a fresh scent of herbs and flowers. The girl brought the handkerchief to her face and breathed in the aroma, wanting to prove it was harmless, then lowered her hand and made a gesture like a asking Daryun's permission to bring near to him that little patch of tissue.

Only in that moment, Daryun noticed the tattoos that ran around the girl's fingers, on the hand and on the wrist, up to her arm, disappearing under the sleeve of the white shirt she was wearing. Thin drawings, by the precise lines tracing symbols that he could not interpret, but which probably referred to the young woman as the religious authority of her clan.

Ignoring Tavan Bogd's steady gaze, Daryun lay back on the mattress. He did not feel very reassured by those two, the suspicious man and the woman, priestess or shaman that she was, but in any case he knew he could not help but try to stay alive and recover his strength as quickly as possible. So he let the girl named Ay Jana wipe to him the sweaty forehead with his piece of scented cloth.

Tavan Bogd mumbled something to which Ay Jana replied in a few words. Daryun listened to them, trying to understand what language they spoke. It did not sound like one of Turan's or Turk's dialects, but he could not concentrate enough to find any clues that would suggest to him which people it might belong to. He felt tired, too tired to think for a long time with lucidity.

He forced himself to relax. The caress of the perfumed hemp handkerchief on his skin was pleasantly refreshing and, since he could not do anything else, Daryun decided to give himself over to the feeling of relief it brought him. He had to rest, at least for a moment, to clear his mind.

Ay Jana seemed to believe that he had finally surrendered. With a rustling movement of the silk of her clothes, she moved closer and sat down next to him, legs folded sideways under the long crimson skirt. Tavan Bogd spoke again and, although he did not understand what he was saying, Daryun realized that the man would have preferred her not so close to him.

It really seemed that Tavan Bogd was afraid that he could hurt her, but the girl, in spite of the fright of shortly before, showed no fear. On the contrary, she appeared pleased that at last the stranger relied on her with confidence, so she resumed to sing softly.

Daryun stood still, listening to the sounds coming from outside. He needed to know where he was ended up and in the hands of whom, so any information would have been useful to him. He was among a group of nomads, this was the only thing he was sure of, but he could not understand who those people were.

While he was listening attentively, beyond the song of Ay Jana and among the various noises that came to him, he got a familiar one. Near to his left, beyond the stretched leather of the tent..

Daryun focused his attention on it and listened again.

"Shabrang" he finally murmured. He felt his heart open with relief when he heard the snorting, followed by a subdued whinny, of the faithful black steed.

"Shabrang" repeated Ay Jana.

Daryun turned and looked at her again. He remembered Shabrang being cruelly wounded by one of the ghouls, before he could cut off the hell's creature head, ripping it off the trunk with a slash of his sword. The steed, maddened by the pain, had risen and was ruined to the ground, dragging him with it. Daryun had seen the blood flow on the flank of his horse and dye the black fur red, then the sorcerer had arrived.

The girl still pronounced the name of the steed and moved her tattooed hands, as if to caress something closed between the two palms, and Daryun understood:

She had been the one to take care both him and his horse.

Why? He wondered, but then, in front of the young woman's clear look and sincere smile, he didn't care anymore to know.

"Thank you" he said.

She understood and accepted his gratitude by nodding her head, then began to sing again and Daryun, not knowing why he was giving up, let the torpor invade him and finally abadoned himself to a restful, dreamless sleep.


	9. The torn cloak

The torn cloak

The walls of Peshawar appeared at the sight of exhausted riders in a vision of gray and ocher stone. Perched on the steep and rugged rocks of the mountain at the border with the kingdom of Shindra, the mpregnable ramparts rose very high against a sky of steel.

Arslan straightened his back e sighed for the fatigue of the exhausting forced march he had imposed on his army.

As always, the sight of Kishward's mighty fortress brought back to him a multitude of memories. Some pleasant, many dramatic, but all linked to emotions so intense as to make him feel his heart go up in throat, even today, after so many years.

With his soul in turmoil, Arslan raised his eyes to the dizzying, massive forms of the ramparts, high up, where the elegant winged figure of Azrael drew wide circles against the clouds over the fortress. The young Sha savored the feeling of protection that only those walls could transmit to him. Nowhere else, even in his capital Ectabana, could he feel so safe as in Peshawar, despite the many danger situations that had taken place here.

Dangers against which his friends had always known how to defend him.

More instinctively than intentionally, the young Shah turned to the right, where he always had found the solid figure of Daryun by his side.

Always, but not this time.

Almost surprised, Arslan found himself staring at Lucian's face.

The marzban returned his gaze and the young Shah feared he had involuntarily assumed a disappointed expression, due Lucian made a strange face.

"Do you feel fine, majesty?" asked the elder general, perplexed.

"Yes, Lucian. I'm fine, thank you" Arslan replied, quickly turning away from his face to look towards Narsus, who was riding tired and thoughtful on his left.

"It seems that the earthquake has caused a lot of damage" observed at that moment the strategist and raised a hand to indicate the walls, where some collapses were evident.

"It is not the first earthquake that the fortress of Peshawar has to endure" answered Lucian in a sure tone

"I had never see one so violent. And you?" Arslan asked. Worried he looked at the fortress.

Lucian opened his mouth to reply, but then fell silent.

"Me not," said Narsus frowning, "but I know that in the past there have been perhaps even stronger earthquakes, and Peshawar has always remained standing ... even if not completely and, as I see, also this time it is still there, dented, but standing. Look" he added, pointing to the gate that opened to let a group of men on horseback pass. "Kishward is coming towards us, we will soon know the extent of the damage."

"I hope will also give us some explanation about what happened to Qbad and Daryun" Lucian said, in a tone that sounded rather annoyed.

"I hope so too. I go ahead" Arslan said and, moving a gesture to Narsus to say him to follow, he spurred his horse forward.

The strategist was immediately next to him with Elam and Alfrida. Jaswant followed them like a shadow.

"The old man is still angry not to have been informed before the truth" Alfrida said, from her horse galloping.

"Yes, I'm afraid you are right" nodded the strategist. "But I advise you not to let Lucian hear you to call him old man."

"Do you think you could spank me?" Alfrida asked, exaggerating a frightened expression on her graceful visage.

"The noble Lucian is a marzban of Parsia," Elam snarled behind them. "You have to show him more respect!"

Alfrida shrugged. "I show people the respect they deserves. I don't care about noble or military titles."

"Lucian is a good man, and a valiant soldier," Arslan said. "Although sometimes, I must admit, he is a bit 'boring", he added, smiling.

"How when do he insist on finding you a wife?" asked Alfrida, and had a short laugh.

"Above all when he wants to find me a wife" Arslan answered and smiled, though the heart burned in his chest, as if wrapped in a thorn bush. The uncertainty for Daryun's fate gnawed at his soul until it bleed.

The two groups of knights met on the cobbled road, against the backdrop of the arid mountains and the mighty border fortress.

Kishward had come to meet his Shah accompanied by ten men of his guard. When he stopped the horse in front of Arslan's white stallion, covered with sweat under the harness of gold, Azrael planed down, over his arm with a shrill cry.

"Welcome back to Peshawar, your Majesty" greeted Kishward. He started to get off his horse to kneel before the sovereign, but Arslan stopped him with a gesture and flanked the steed to his, then held out a hand to grip the wrist of the faithful general.

Azrael gave a sort of peep and rose into the air again in a flutter of wings.

"I'm happy to see you again, Kishward, my friend," said the young Shah.

"You make me too much honor, majesty. I am only your servant" replied Kishward.

Arslan smiled and hold tight the arm of the faithful marzban , before withdrawing his hand.

"We left immediately after receiving your message, Kishward" Narsus said. "I don't hide you that we are all very worried."

"You have traveled in forced march to get here from Ectabana in such a short time," the general replied, and his eyes went over the dust-covered riders who were coming, led by Lucian. "Your men and horses are exhausted," he observed.

"Have you any news about Daryun and his men?" Arslan asked and, despite his effort to keep a controlled tone, spoke impetuously all in one breath.

Kishward looked at him, then turned to Narsus. The strategist frowned and moved his head in a slight nod of agreement.

"We found something, your majesty," the Peshawar commander finally admitted. He brought his hand to the side of the saddle and, in the astonished silence of those present, pulled out a bundle of black and red cloth, dirty and ragged but carefully folded, adorned with a now broken buckle on which a sapphire gem shone. Kishward held the object a few moments between hands, before give it to the young Shah. "I'm sorry," he said.

Alfrida put a hand to her mouth; Elam tightened his lips; Jaswant's dark gaze flashed in a sinister lightning. Arslan felt the blood flow away from his face as he stared in disbelief at what the general held out to him.

It was Narsus who took the black cloak folded by Kishward's hands. The face stiffened in an inscrutable mask, the strategist looked at the ragged fabric stained with dried blood.

"We believe they are all dead" announced Kishward, funereal.

Frozen, Arslan staggered in the saddle and had to force himself to still listen to Kishward's words.

"We've already recovered several bodies," the Peshawar commander continued. "Zaravant made them take to the fortress on wagons, while the search continues with Jimsa of Turan. I fear that many other bodies will be sent to us shortly. Regarding Daryun, only his cloak has been found."

"Only his cloak?" Narsus asked, looking at Kishward. "So you have not found his body, and I imagine not even the carcass of his horse."

"No, at least not yet," Kishward replied.

Narsus smiled with a hard smile. "We can continue to hope" said and stretched the black cloak to Arslan with a gesture so firm that almost stuck it in his lap.

"Killing Daryun is not a simple feat, neither for men nor for demons" he asserted aloud, turning to his companions who were remained petrified, "and we have already had proof of this on several occasions. Therefore, until I see his body with my own eyes, I will not believe his death."

"Farangis said the Djinn would take her to him," said Alfrida, shaking.

"The Djinn of the priestess have never failed", underlined Jaswant, speaking for the first time.

Elam nodded and, pushing his horse forward, joined Arslan. "Have confidence, your majesty" he said.

Arslan turned to him. He wanted to show himself confident, but the torn cloak he held in his hands seemd to him as heavy as a stone. He was not ready to reign without Daryun's support. He was one of the most loyal friends and allies he had. He had saved his life, Arslan did not know more how many times, and had always been by his side, ready to defend, support, advise him. Together with Narsus, they were the two columns on which he had built his kingdom, and his very identity. He owed him too much. He couldn't lose him like that.

"Your Majesty" Narsus called him.

The young Shah shook himself at the voice of the strategist. He looked up at him and caught a whole speech in the look that Narsus addressed him. It was not time to panic.

"Tell me about Qbad," he ordered, forcing himself to keep a detached tone as he hear the army approaching his shoulders. "And please, give me a report of the damage suffered by the fortress due to the earthquake."

"Please come, your Majesty" invited the severe general of Peshawar. "Qbad feel much better. I will lead you to him."

"Yeah, a good news!" Alfrida sighed.

"The fortress suffered a lot of damage due to the earthquake, and we had some victims," Kishward continued. He nodded to Lucian just arrived.

"One good news and one bad news," Elam muttered.

Lucian, covered with dust from head to toe, returned Kishward's greeting with a kind gesture. On the verge of smiling, he changed his expression when saw what Arslan held in his hands.

"Don't draw hasty conclusions" Narsus said, before the marzban spoke. "His torn cloak is not sufficient evidence to say that Daryun is dead."

Lucian became gloomy. "I know how much you all are bound to him, especially you, Majesty, but what I see certainly does not make me hope well" he said.

Arslan frowned and squeezed the ragged fabric between his fingers. "Hope is something I don't want to give up, Lucian" he said with renewed determination.

The marzban could say what he wanted, Narsus was right and Arslan would not give up. He had a friend to rescue and a kingdom to defend. He could not give up. Daryun and Narsus had made him the Shah of Parsia, and he did not mean to disappoint them.

Arslan straightened his shoulders and looked up at his fortress, in front of him.

"Now I want to know which enemy is attacking us and why. Bring me to Qbad!"


	10. The horror valley

The horror valley

Gieve felt Isfan leaning heavily on his shoulders, and the young man's breath of breath warmed the back of his head.

"My enchanting Farangis" called the minstrel. "I'm afraid our young friend has exhausted his strength. Don't you think it would be better to stop?"

"I can do it!" Isfan reacted. He moved away from Gieve abruptly, but could not keep himself erect on back. "I can do it," he repeated between clenched teeth.

Gieve turned a sarcastic smile at Farangis, who now was looking at them, and continued to smile when he felt the gaze of the warrior priestess cross him, as if he were invisible, and probe the young man half-bended behind him.

"Hold on, Isfan," said Farangis, turning again to look forward, over the dry and rocky humps that drew the landscape all around them. "We are about to reach Kishward's men on the battlefield," she added, and her voice became low and hard.

"Did your Djinn suggest it to you?" Gieve asked lightly, vaguely teasing.

"No, it was suggested to me by those columns of smoke that you can see too, if you divert your attention from yourself and raise your eyes from your shadow" answered Farangis, with absolute detachment.

Gieve twisted the nose when he heard Isfan's suffocated chuckle. He looked up at the heavy swirls of black smoke rising toward the gray dome of the sky. At that moment the wind changed direction and began to blow towards them, bringing with it the acrid smell of burnt resin, confused by the smell of burnt flesh.

"Funeral fires" the minstrel muttered to himself.

"They are many," Isfan observed in a low voice.

"And rather large, judging by the smoke they do" added Gieve. "It would be too much to hope that they are burning only ghouls carcasses."

No one answered.

The minstrel and the priestess of Mithra continued to push the exhausted steeds forward on the path uphill, until they crossed the rocky ridge that separated them from the valley from which the smoke of the fires rose.

Gieve clenched his teeth and drew back in an instinctive motion, at the sight of the heaps of unrecognizable, dark and convoluted forms, enveloped in a smoke so thick and heavy as to prevent the fire from blazing and consuming, in a single vivid flame, the wretched remains. of those who had been living beings: men, horses and primordial creatures emerged from the shadows of chaos.

As in an vision of hell, the warriors of Peshawar moved around the fires, like shadows of demons, through the blanket of smoke, dragging bodies or throwing into the fire what was left of it. Many had a band of cloth covering their mouth and nose, to defend themselves from the obscene stench that was infecting the air.

"They're all dead," Isfan whispered in horror. "Not only the knights of General Daryun, but also Qbad's men," he added, barely recognizing the insignia of the two leaders, among the ragged rags scattered on the ground which was black with clotted and upset blood, as if he had been dug by deformed plows gone crazy.

"Five hundred men ... and more ... all dead," he finally stammered, incredulous. "I doubt someone may have saved himself" said Gieve gloomy, observing the dreadful scenery of death and absolute violence in front of them.

"Let's go down" Farangis said, stiff on the saddle, and, without other words, spurred on her mare with the white fur now covered with filth. The animal discarded on the trembling legs of exhaustion, but obeyed and with prudent caution started go down the stony mule track.

Gieve leaned over the damp neck of his horse. "Courage, my friend," he said, caressing the animal that was snorting clouds of steam. The steed, exhausted, shook his dirty mane and a few drops of white foam fell to the ground between the animal teeth, tight on the bite.

"All right," the minstrel sighed. He raised his right leg to climb over the saddle and slid down. Touching the ground, he made a grimace of pain at the contracting of the bruised muscles of his shoulder.

"I hope Daryun is still alive, just to make him pay all this bother I have to endure because of him" grumbled in grasping the reins to lead the horse downstream.

Isfan gave him a dismal look. "I will never understand how General Daryun can stand you" he growled.

Gieve shrugged. "Perhaps because he likes me" replied, "or perhaps because he knows what gratitude is, contrary you" added and pulled the horse, causing it to snap sharply forward, so that Isfan was forced to swallow the angry words he already had in throat, and to hastily grasp the saddle.

"Now shut up, if you don't have anything smart to say. That man I see going to meet Farangis seems to me your friend Jimsa" Gieve said, watching the slender figure advancing towards the priestess, while she was coming down without waiting for them.

"Jimsa, pleased to see you again" greeted the warrior priestess, stopping the horse when the young, former commander of Turan and now ally and Arslan's friend, was in front of her.

"Venerable Farangis, you here. I didn't want to believe the sentinels who told me they had seen you" Jimsa said. "Are you hurt?" he immediately asked, seeing the bandaged hand of the priestess and the sign of scratches on her face.

"It's nothing. We were overwhelmed by a landslide, during the earthquake two days ago, while we were crossing the Khojir gorges" answered Farangis.

"Yeah, the earthquake," Jimsa said, twisting his mouth. "Never saw an earthquake like this, it shook the mountains like the wind shakes the trees." He looked up to look at Gieve approaching with Isfan, then suddenly he changed his expression and, with a jolt, turned back to Farangis. "The Khojir gorges ?! Have you crossed the Khojir gorges!?"

"Yeah. We were in a bit of a hurry, so we took the shortest route, and traveled at night," Gieve pointed out, while he stopped beside Farangis.

Jimsa opened wide his black almond eyes. "You are crazy!" exclaimed, and the nearest men turned to look at him, perplexed, then he noticed the conditions of Isfan and again looked worried.

"Isfan has nothing serious, just a broken ankle," Farangis said. "Now tell me, Jimsa: what did you discover here? Daryun is not among the fallen. How many survivors with him? Did you find them?"

Jimsa looked surprised. "You know that General Daryun ... "

"I know you didn't find him among the dead, otherwise you would be much more pained and upset than you appear now" asserted the priestess.

Gieve had a half smile at seeing Jimsa's expression become, in a few seconds, first surprise, then embarrassed and perplexed, and finally resigned.

"You're terrible, my lady," said the young man from Turan. "Terrible and beautiful, like a stormy night in the steppe. A man has no hope of concealing you his heart."

"Yellow adulator" grumbled Gieve, but no one gave any sign of having heard him. "So, where's Daryun?" he asked then raising voice and looking around. He shuddered and shook his head. "What slaughter ... only Daryun had could get out alive from this carnage."

"Actually ... here ..." Jimsa hesitated before continuing. "General Daryun is not here. We don't know where he is, and if he really is still alive. We found only his cloak ... in tatters."

Gieve tightened lips to hold back the imprecation that was about to escape him. Isfan had a discomfort move and leaned even more on the saddle.

"Where? asked Farangis dryly.

"Come with me," Jimsa said and turned.

Farangis dismounted and followed him, leading the exhausted mare by the bridle. Gieve approached her and, as he walked behind the young man of Turan through the devastated battlefield and the burning fires, felt his soul grow heavier.

"I am afraid that at last I will have to prepare that funeral composition" he said softly. A gust of wind blew in his face the smoke of a pyre, igniting his dry throat.

Farangis did not answer. Suddenly she left the reins of the horse and passed Jimsa to head for long, rapid steps towards some rocks that protruded from the devastated ground, on the opposite edge of the valley. Jimsa almost had to run behind her and Gieve was forced to drag the horse with Isfan over, risking each time to stumble across the pits that dug the ground like open wounds, or desecrated graves.

"Yes, this is the place" confirmed Jimsa, finally approaching Farangis, who had stopped at the foot of a rock spur, from which the ground began to rise towards the stony hump that bordered the valley. "Zaravant found it when the fog cleared up enough to make out something. Impossible not to recognize it, despite being torn and ... and covered in blood."

"I wish I could doubt it was his blood" Gieve said, looking at the point indicated by Jimsa. "Shabrang?" then asked , while looking the swollen carcass of a horse abandoned nearby, among the stones.

Jimsa shook his head and Gieve nodded.

"Well, good sign," said the minstrel, but he could not smile.

"Have you seen any drawings around here?" asked Farangis, all of a sudden.

"Yes, my lady," Jimsa answered, and became rigid and cautious as if she were afraid of something in the air. "Snakes. Snakes traced everywhere along the delimitation of the valley, as symbols of a huge spell. Just as Qbad had said" he became silent and thoughtful. "The demons of your land are awakened, venerable Farangis," he added later, almost in a whisper.

"Yes, thanks to Prince Hilmes, who let himself be manipulated like an idiot, and thanks to us, that we have completed the work," Gieve said with a sigh.

"What do you mean?" Jimsa asked, turning to the minstrel.

"We'll talk about it in another moment, now I need Isfan," Farangis said. "Help him to disassemble" She ordered, addressed to the two men.

Gieve held out his hand to the wounded boy, but he pretended not to see him and instead grabbed Jimsa's arm. As he slipped from the saddle, Isfan stumbled and clung to the young man of Turan.

Gieve sneered. "Next time, I leave you under the landslide" said in annoyance.

"Look at these traces, Isfan. And you, Jimsa, describe what you found when you arrived here" Farangis commanded again.

"The fog was thinning" Jimsa answered, while Isfan, always supporting to him, leaned forward to scrutinize among the stones on the ground trampled and upset. "When we arrived here, under Zaravant command, we were just beginning to glimpse the ground. The fog was so thick that it stuck to you like a spider's web. At first we did not see anything. We were looking for the drawings that Qbad had said we would find, but there seemed to be nothing. Only, suddenly, we saw them, then ... then we realized that there were weapons and horse harnesses on the ground. Spears, swords ... some were scattered on the ground, others come out from the ground, partly buried." Jimsa shuddered and ran a hand over his dry lips. "After a while, we saw that not only weapons came out of the earth , but also arms, legs ... horses paws... "

"Are you saying that the bodies were half buried?" asked Gieve.

Jimsa shook his head. "No, it was as if they were dragged underground still alive" he said darkly. "When we started pulling them out, we saw the expressions on their faces ... or what was left of them ..." he swallowed and looked at Farangis. "We unearthed some men, then we found the ghouls ... and then the first sorcerer." He stopped at the glare in priestess's gaze. "Yes, my lady. We found some, but when we touched them, they burned in our hands. Burned without fire ... from the inside ... they crimped on themselves, like dry leaves near burning coals. And then... " Again Jimsa stopped and seemed he did not want to continue.

"And then what?" urged Gieve, now following Isfan's movements, who was scanning the ground and sniffing like a wolf.

"And then the earth began to vomit corpsea" Jimsa answered and lowered his head to hide the lost expression of his eyes. "Torn bodies ... only a few were still recognizable, and only some of those with an intact face Zaravant brought back to Peshawar, taking with him General Daryun's cloak," he breathed deeply and resumed. "Most corpses, however, can not be transported ... " pointed to the fires. "they are devastated ... rotten as if they had been dead for weeks rather than a few days. Some spell must have reduced them like this."

"Or rather a poison," Gieve answered. Determined not to appear impressed, he trampled the remains of what had been the design of a snake on a rock protruding from the ground.

"Or maybe both," Farangis replied. "What can you tell me, Isfan?" she asked, quickly approaching the young man, who now seemed agitated and was leaning towards the ground, helped by Jimsa.

"These tracks are confused, my lady" replied Isfan, "but I believe that General Daryun has tried to bring his men on the rocky ground ... certainly to escape the sorcerers. Ghouls have tried to stop them. Look there, where the earth is broken."

"We found many bodies at that point" confirmed Jimsa, "of men and ... other. Qbad reported that General Daryun had ordered the retreat, but while Qbad, after being wounded, was being carried off by his men, he lost sight of him in the fog. He said they all disappeared, as if swallowed up by earth."

"Apparently, he was not wrong" Gieve said darkly.

"Daryun and his men have headed north, there, towards the mountains" said Isfan pointing to the outlines of the distant mountains.

"In the opposite direction to where Peshawar is," Gieve observed. He frowned and looked at Farangis. "If they survived, they'd be back to the fortress by now."

"I need a fresh horse" suddenly said the priestess, turning to Jimsa regardless of the words of the minstrel.

"My lady?" asked the young man of Turan, surprised.

"Two fresh horses, please" Gieve intruded with a grin.

"Three!" Isfan snapped.

"You are not able to continue" replied Farangis, while Jimsa called a soldier to give him the order to bring the requested horses.

"Venerable Farangis ... " protested Isfan, but the priestess silenced him with a wave of hand.

"You go back to Peshawar with Jimsa's men, it's an order" imposed the Mithra warrior priestess. "You will have to conduct Kishward on our tracks, and reach us as quickly as possible."

"Who will guide you, if you leave me here?" insisted Isfan.

"The Djinn will come back to talk to me, when I'll be far from this place," the warrior priestess answered with absolute firmness.

"At your commands" Isfan surrendered, however gloomy.

"You still hope, my lady?" Jimsa asked, handing over to the priestess the reins of one of the horses that the soldier had led, obeying his order.

Farangis jumped onto the saddle. "I promised his Majesty Arslan that I would find Daryun, and I have a message for him from Narsus. I don't intend to disappoint either one of them," she replied.

"I'm coming with you. Of course I can't let you go alone among these wild mountains," Gieve said, and in turn climbed onto the horse that was offered to him by the Peshawar soldier.

"Do what you want," Farangis answered and spurred her steed.

"Greet Kishward for me!" shouted Gieve, addressing Jimsa and Isfan, as he galloped behind the priestess.

The two young men watched them go. Then turned to the battlefield where the funeral fires still burned.

"They will never find him," Jimsa muttered. "No one could have saved himself from such a spell."

Isfan nodded sadly. "I fear it too, but I am sure that if anyone had could be able to do it, that man is Daryun, and they will find him, wherever he is."


	11. Demons and kings

Demons and kings

Arslan still sensed the bitter taste of bile on his lips. To resist the nausea, in front of the slaughter of the torn corpses, that Kishward had shown him, had been hard. Even more difficult had been to listen to the rapport Kishward had received from Zaravant, before the young man left to rejoin Jimsa.

Every Zaravant's word reported by the commander of Peshawar had been, to the young Sha, the atrocious confirmation to the worst of his fears.

"I wanted you to see with your own eyes," Kishward had said. "Now we know that Qbad asserted the truth, in saying he was victim of a black magic spell."

At his nod, the soldier who accompanied them had rearranged the cloth to cover the bloodied body, lying in front of them.

"Unfortunately it is so. Just as I feared" Narsus agreed, getting up after examining the wounds that rip the remains of the fallen warrior. He had spoken in stifled voice, from behind his sleeve, which he held up to cover his nose, to defend himself from the stench of the corpses that soaked the air.

With the throat tightened by horror and dismay, Arslan had watched, one by one, the many, too many dead ones lined up under the vaults of one of the fortress's underground department stores. The pitiful white sheets, which Kishward just before

had removed to show him the bodies, they were now back in their place, to conceal the havoc suffered by those men.

Men whom he himself had sent to the disaster, along with Daryun.

"What did I do?" he had finally murmured, so lowly that only Elam and Alfrida, closer to him, had heard him.

"It was not your fault, Majesty," the girl whispered, touching his arm.

Without a word, Narsus had turned to leave. In the moment he had lowered his arm and uncovered the face, Arslan had caught in his tense features an expression of bewilderment and uncertainty, which he had never seen before.

It had only been a moment. Narsus had immediately recomposed and resumed his usual uncaring air, but Arslan had understood that the brilliant strategist, this time, had something in front of him that he feared not being able to face. And maybe

he was addressing himself, the same bitter reproach that he, Arslan had just directed to himself.

"How do you feel, Majesty?"

At the voice of Elam speaking to him, Arslan shook himself. The boy had approached him, while, along with Alfrida and Jasvant, they followed Kishward and Narsus along the corridors of the fortress, heading for Qbad room. A little behind them, Lucian was walking gloomily.

"I'm fine," answered Arslan, straightening his back with an effort. "I'm fine," he repeated, more to convince himself than his friend.

"I feel very bad. I had never seen anything like this" moaned Alfrida, the greenish face.

"Neither do I," Lucian said coldly.

Arslan turned to him. The marzban lowered his face, but not quickly enough to conceal from the young Shà the expression of accusation flaming in his eyes.

"That sword ... " Lucian said, as could not resist besides giving voice to his torment. He waved his hand toward the old saber in the scabbard hanging from Arslan's belt. "With due respect, Majesty, that sword should have stayed where it was."

Arslan felt a chill of cold running down his back. In a nervous motion he clenched his fingers on the hilt of the legendary sword, which had legitimized his right to the throne of Parsia.

"I wish it had been possible, Lucian. Believe me" he replied bitterly.

"It's not time for recriminations!" cut short Kishward, and stopped in front of a massive door made of wood and iron.

The commander of Peshawar raised his hand to knock, but before his knuckles hit the door, it suddenly swung open inward. Followed by a fierce blasphemy screamed from inside the room, a physician in fluttering white robes crossed the door in rush and went to clash against the general's chest.

"My Lord Kishward," the doctor whimpered, "I beg you, tell him that we have took away his clothes under your order! For his sake ... as you said yourself, so that he would lie down in bed and not try to go out!" then he saw Arslan and threw himself to the ground. "Your Majesty!"

Arslan invited him to get up and was about to say something, when Qbad's voice thundered in a furious roar.

"Kishward, damn bastard! Let me get my clothes back, or I swear on Mithra's sacred sterns, that I go out from here and go around your damned fortress, naked as my mother gave birth to me!"

Arslan smiled and stepped forward. Despite everything, he felt pleased to hear the harsh, deep voice of the fierce marzban.

"I see with joy that you are better, my brave general Qbad" he said, passing next to Kishward who moved aside to leave space for him.

With nothing else on him that the bandages on his wounds, Qbad, standing by the unmade bed, opened wide the only eye on the young Shà.

"Are you already here?!" he exclaimed surprised.

"Qbad, I find you fit" Narsus said, while with one hand he covered the eyes of Alfrida, who was elongated her neck to peek in the room.

"I was better," Qbad growled. He tore a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around him. He made the gesture to bow down to his sovereign, but his leg gave way beneath him and Qbad fell badly on his knees.

Arslan ran to supported him, preventing him from ending up lying on the ground. In vain, the young man tried to raise Qbad up: the man was too tall and heavy for him to be able to do it himself.

"Kishward, Jasvant help me!" called Arslan, fighting against the sense of impotence and inadequacy that burned his soul. Suddenly he felt the big and strong hand of Qbad squeezing his shoulder, so vigorously that it hurt him.

"Forgive me, Majesty," the general murmured. "Forgive me, I've been an idiot. I behaved as a newbie, and I dragged Daryun into a trap."

"The responsibility of what happened is mine, not yours" replied Arslan. He brought his pale fingers to the tanned and rough ones of the warrior, and again the feeling of not deserving the trust and devotion of a man like that hurted his heart. He withdrew his hand and stepped aside as Kishward and Jasvant seized Qbad one on each side and pulled him up.

"Leave me!" roared Qbad and shook off the two men, only to fall sitting on the bed behind him with a grunt of pain.

"Your attitude is unworthy of your rank!" shouted Lucian, advancing in the room with long, angry steps, fists clenched against his hips. "You are in the presence of his Majesty Arslan!"

Qbad twisted the scarred face in a grin. "Toh, Lucian. Old grumpy sparrowhawk, here you too?" he looked behind the old marzban whose mustache trembled now with indignation, and watched at those present. "Elam, always with this bizarre court artist? and you, Alfrida? I'm glad to see your pretty face again." He returned the girl's smile and stretched his massive neck, as if looking for someone behind her. "Where is Farangis? Why is not she with you?"

"Farangis separated from us immediately after leaving Ectabana," Narsus replied. "She decided to follow another, faster track, through the mountains of Kohjir, convinced that she could precede us to find Daryun."

Qbad smiled sardonically. "I should envy him, then. It has never happened to me that a beautiful woman looked for me with such devotion even to face the gorges of Kohjir." He became gloomy and his forehead clouded up. "Do you think he is still alive?" he asked, staring at his hands clenched in fists, resting on knees.

"Farangis's instinct is our best reassurance, Qbad," Narsus replied.

"To not say the only" grunted the warrior. "I imagine the minstrel is attached to her skirts, as usual" grinned, then became gloomy again. "Is there anything you have to tell me, Kishward?" he asked turning to his friend.

"Zaravant is back, and immediately left. I did not tell you before, because I wanted you to stay calm" replied Kishward. He put his hand on the other's shoulder and looked at him straight in the face. "He has found the place, where you had indicated, and has also found the drawings that you said you saw: snakes. Snakes drawn everywhere."

Qubad grabbed his arm violently, as if to crush it. "What else did he find?" he growled. "Tell me!"

"Corpses, Qbad, and not just men: there were numerous ghouls and ... more. You were right: they had been dragged all into underground, this is why they seemed to have disappeared" replied the fortress commander. He straightened up and freed his arm from friend's grip.

"Daryun?" asked Qbad again, tight teeth.

"We only found his cloak. In pieces" Kishward answered darkly.

Arslan felt the heart jolt in chest, when Qbad threw his head back and burst into a bitter, ferocious laugh. "The cloak remained in the clutches of the first ghoul who tried to put his claws on Daryun, and found himself without an arm!"

"It was torn ... full of blood," Elam said.

Qbad looked at him. "Ghoul's blood" answered. "I saw with my eyes Daryun cut away, with a single blow, the arm from the shoulder to that monster." He turned to Arslan, and the young Shà felt his soul get even heavier before Qbad's dark gaze.

"I hope the instinct of your beautiful priestess is right, Majesty. Before the fog swallowed everything, while those cowards of my soldiers dragged me away, I saw Daryun trying to take the men to the rocky ground, to the north, to the mountains. In a few we managed to retreat to Peshawar, and I think they let us go. We were not their target."

"What do you mean?" asked Arslan.

"The only one they wantedt, it was Daryun" Narsus intervened. "The trap was for him, you were just a bait. The bait they knew we would have bitten."

"Can you explain yourself, Narsus? Whom are you talking about?" Lucian asked nervously.

"The servants of the Demon King Zahak" answered Arslan. He raised his head and, looking at the others, saw their faces became pale. "Those same who have manipulated Hilmes, so that blinded by his desire for revenge to remove the seal that imprisoned their lord, on the Demavant." He brought his hand to the saber and it seemed to him that the handle had suddenly been red-hot, so as to burn his skin. "This sword ... Rucknabad was the seal, and I completed the work of Hilmes."

"But not in the way the necromancers of Zahak would have wanted" Narsus intervened. "We have spoiled their program, preventing Hilmes from recovering the throne of Parsia and opening the way to Zahak. Now, they want revenge. Daryun was only the first on the list." He paused, and in the stunned silence that fell on the room, he approached the window. "The first objective of their plots. They planned everything, so that as a result of the events we would send Daryun straight into their hands." He frowned, staring at the distant Demavant shape.

"If even Daryun have managed to escape them, the necromancers will hunt him," said Kishward, grim. "And not just to him," he added.

Narsus nodded grimly. "I imagine they will want to celebrate the return of their lord, offering him our blood in a golden cup. And I ... " he stopped and took a deep breath before continuing. "I, this time, I don't know what to do" he admitted, with bitterness.

"I know what to do!" Arslan snapped taking everyone by surprise. "First of all, we must find Daryun, before the necromancers do it! Striking him they believed to break our trust ... my trust! But they are wrong! This Zahak will also be a demon, but he is not invincible." He grabbed Rucknabad, as if about to draw it out. "This sword has defeated him once, and we have seen with our eyes how he fears it even today."

"Gieve always sang that old ballad, remember?" Alfrida came forward, clinging to the Narsus arm. "That myth, which tells how Rucknabad, forged by a fragment of the sun, will forever drive out the demon Zahak in the abyss."

"If the legends are true, and apparently they are" said Qbad, "They can not be true only half. I would say that we can already drink to our victory."

"Do not joke with the myths, it brings badly" Jasvant muttered.

"Jasvant is right," said Elam, seriously. "There's nothing to joke about."

"Nobody is kidding," Arslan answered firmly. He approached Narsus and turned his gaze to the left mountain, which stood out in the clouds. He looked at her for a long time, almost as if he wanted to respond with the force of his gaze to the silent challenge that this cursed place seemed to address to him with his only existence.

"Kishward, prepare your men. We leave" he ordered at the end, without hesitation.

"May the gods protect us ..." Lucian murmured in a whisper.


	12. The doubt

The doubt

Getting up had not been that difficult, Daryun decided when, on the fifth attempt, he managed to pull himself up, holding onto the nearest support pole of the jurta.

He straightened his shoulders and waited for the world to finish to go around him like a mad carousel. He could do it, Daryun told himself as he struggled to resist dizziness. It had been harder to get back on his feet the last time he had been persuaded by Qbad to drink with him and Farangis.

When he thought he could abandon the pole's support at least with one hand, Daryun adjusted on himself the clothes that someone, perhaps Ay Jana, had left on the mattress and which, before getting up, he had worn, albeit with some difficulty because of pain to his wounds.

They were comfortable clothes, of light silk and soft wool, artfully modified to adapt them to his build. They kept warm and turned out to be pleasant to wear.

In arranging the tunic, Daryun glanced at the drawings that the nomadic priestess had traced on his skin. He had watched them for a long time, with curiosity, without being able to give them meaning, but now he had other things to worry about.

No longer thinking about the drawings, he lifted his head and looked at the stiff cloth that closed the entrance to the tent.

It was close. He could get there.

On the verge of leaving the pole to which he held himself up, ready to move first step, Daryun suddenly stopped in hearing someone approached. Among the sounds of the camp, which came to him through the tent, he heard a light footstep settle on the boards of what was to be the ladder to get into the cart. A few moments later, he saw Ay Jana peeking out from behind the pulled sheet and looking for him. When she found him, the girl smiled and stepped forward.

As Ay Jana approached him, Daryun watched her and belived to see a satisfied expression on the young woman's face. She was looking at him too, and when she came near him, she stretched out her tattooed hands to tie the shirt over his chest.

She was even smaller than appeared at first, Daryun thought as he let her do it. The girl could not reach his shoulders with the head, and her pale skin made it even more evident the thinness of her face a little bony.

When she had finished closing his shirt, Ay Jana took a step back and looked up at him. She smiled again and spoke a few words.

Daryun shook his head, to tell her that he could not understand. The language of these people sounded completely alien to him. It did not resemble any of the idioms he knew, while the objects he saw around him were not entirely unknown to him. In particular, the heavy, brightly colored carpets with refined designs that covered the wagon boards had something familiar. He had already seen similar ones, but where?

He felt Ay Jana touch his arm, to attract his attention, then the young woman took his hand and drew him to her. She spoke again, nodding at the exit, and this time, although he had not understood her words, Daryun realized that she was inviting him to follow her out.

It was exactly what he wanted. Getting out of that tent was necessary for him to understand where he was, and to find out what had happened to the men he had managed to wrest from the trap in which they had been lured.

Without hesitation, Daryun left his support and took a step, but found himself still too weak to remain standing. He had to hang on to Ay Jana so as not to fall. He tried not to weigh on her, but she grabbed him firmly and stood at his side, supporting him without difficulty.

"You are less fragile than it looks" Daryun murmured, feeling the tension of the thin but strong body of the girl through the clothes.

She looked at him and nodded proudly, as if she understood. Adjusted her grip and placed Daryun's arm behind her shoulders, then walked steadily toward the exit of the tent.

Daryun walked with her, stubbornly resisting the throbbing pain of the wound and the feeling of frost that, from time to time, ran through his veins. Last residual, he thought, of the poison instilled in his blood by the claws of the sorcerer.

He brought his hand to his chest wound and, once more, was surprised to be alive. Ay Jana, who had extended an arm to pull aside the curtain cloth, stopped, interpreting his gesture as a sign of suffering. She asked a question, in that unknown language, and her clear eyes became worried.

Fearing that the girl would change her mind and give up helping him out, Daryun straightened up as much as he could and tried to make her understand that it was nothing. She looked at him, unconvinced, but ended up pulling aside the heavy colored cloth and led him out.

The sunlight forced Daryun to squint, accustomed to the dim light of the tent, while the crisp air of the mountains lashed his face pleasantly. It was full day, white clouds chased each other in a blue and transparent sky; only to the south, sinister piles of gray and heavy clouds, oppressed the snowy peaks of the mountains.

Daryun frowned. He knew those mountains, but he did not expect to find himself so far from them. He looked around and his trained mind examined the situation in a few moments. It was on the northern highlands, and those that looked northward were the chains of the Wa Chan, and they were closer than he wished.

Those mysterious nomads had carried him far away from Peshawar. Too far.

The camp was not unlike that of many other plains clans. Jurta tents shaped round, made of leather and woolen cloths, mounted on poles. The horses, small and robust with thick tawny fur, were enclosed in fences, also formed by low palings.

The horses were not many, certainly less than those actually owned by that group of people, evaluated the general of Parsia. Surely, the able men were out, and rode hunting on the plateau. After all, he saw only elderly people, women and children, engaged in their daily activities.

Someone looked at him with curiosity, others smiled at him. Everyone greeted Ay Jana with deference.

Supporting himself onto the girl's small but solid figure, Daryun could descend the few steps of the wooden ladder that separated him from the ground. The wagon that housed the jurta of the nomadic priestess was mounted on low, solid wheels of solid wood wrapped in sheet of iron. The pole, to which the horses for towing were attached, had been removed. That and many other signs in the camp made Daryun think that the nomads had not intended to move from there for some time.

From the number of tents, horses and people he saw, Daryun thought he was not mistaken in thinking that the nomadic group was made up of at least fifty individuals. About the identity of their leader, he had no doubts: certainly he had to be that gruff guy of Tavan Bogd.

Shabrang's snort and low nitrite made him turn abruptly. His horse was tied to the cart, not far from him, and he was pulling the halter that held him back.

"Shabrang" Ay Jana said. She pointed to the black steed and accompanied Daryun next to it, until the general could caress the animal, which calmed down and began to rub on him with the shuddering muzzle.

"Also I am happy to see you, my friend" Daryun murmured, passing his fingers on the black mane of his steed.

The horse's hair was perfectly clean. The beast had been groomed, nourished and well cared for. Despite the ugly wounds, which still marked his hips, Shabrang appeared in force and not at all suffering.

Ay Jana had cared for it well, and she had traced her mysterious drawings also on it. Daryun looked at the doodles on Shabrang's glossy fur, until he seemed to identify a recognizable form: they were not abstract signs, they drew something: animals, maybe deer. He watched better. They were not deer, they were mountain goats. Those big mountain goats, with the big, long, curved horns that he too had seen sometimes, travelling over the steep slopes of the mountains on his journeys north of his country.

Suddenly a name flashed through his mind and he knew who those nomads were.

"Paziki" he said, turning to Ay Jana. "You are Paziki. I saw the merchants of your people in Serica, years ago. They traded carpets like those in your tent. Why are you here, so south?" he asked, without expecting to be understood and even less to receive an answer.

Ay Jana stared at him for a long moment, as if he were reflecting on his words. "Paziki" she finally nodded, then turned to the northeast and pointed away. "Serica" she said.

When turned back to Daryun she was smiling. "Parsia" she said again, and pointed south.

"Parsia" repeated, touching the general with the tips of her fingers, then laughed and pushed away the muzzle of Shabrang who, intrigued by the unknown clothes of his master, was chewing one of the dress laces.

The animal snorted and scratched the ground. Daryun hastened to grab him by the halter, fearing that the steed would react badly to the gesture of the young woman, but Shabrang was already letting Ay Jana to caress its nose and the horse was tickling her other hand with its lips, as if looking for something greedy on her palm.

Apparently, his terrible war horse had let himself be tamed by that nomad girl, Daryun told himself with a half smile. Not many, apart from himself, were those to whom Shabrang deigned to grant such confidence.

He ran his hand over the powerful shoulders of the horse, still intent on being pampered by Ay Jana, and felt the force vibrating in its muscles. Shabrang was definitely able to travel. He could leave, but first he had to find out how many of his men had been saved, or if someone had been saved.

He raised his head and was about to look around when he heard his name called. He recognized the voices and the sense of relief that invaded him almost made him forget all anguish. But it was a brief relief. When Daryun saw only three soldiers coming towards him, accompanied by an old man and a child Paziki, all the weight of the ferocious defeat he suffered fell on him like a boulder.

Only three, he kept repeating himself, while the men reached him and stood around him with expressions of relief and expectation on their faces.

"General, sir. You look fine?" asked one of the soldiers. "We thought you were dead."

"Now we'll go back to Peshawar, are not we, sir?" Another came forward, with a bandaged arm, hanging around neck.

"Sir, they were ghouls!" exclaimed the third, dragging himself clinging to that of the comrades who had spoken first. "They did not have to be there, they should not even exist! Why did they attack us? And those sorcerers? Who are they?!"

"And these people? Who are these nomads?" asked the first soldier, who seemed to be the strongest one. "They've been taking us on their travels for days."

Daryun looked at Ay Jana, who had stepped back, as if frightened by those agitated and loud men. "They are nomadic Paziki," he said, deciding to answer the simplest of question that had been addressed to him.

"Paziki?" said the same soldier.

Daryun looked at him. He was not one of his knights, he was one of the men of Qbad.

"What are Paziki doing here?" asked the soldier again and suspect was painted on his face.

"I do not know," Daryun replied, "But they saved our lives."

The soldier looked at Ay Jana. "She took care of us," he said, but there was no gratitude in his voice.

"They buried our dead," said the soldier with the injured arm.

Daryun resisted the temptation to ask how many had been buried by the Paziki. It would not have made any difference to know it. He had left Ectabana with five hundred knights, and only two remained alive, along with the Peshawar soldier.

Never before in his life had he suffered such a disaster.

"Let's go back to Peshawar, sir," begged the man clinging to his comrade.

Daryun looked at him and frowned. That soldier could not endure the travel to Peshawar. Actually, of the three the only one who could be able to ride was the Qbad warrior. As for himself, standing still cost him more and more effort and he began to doubt that he would hold up for a long time.

But this fact, these men did not have to know it, or even suspect it.

He held out his hand the soldier's healthy shoulder and felt it tremble under his fingers. "We'll leave when you're better. What's your name?" he asked.

"Khorask, sir," replied the soldier, and tried to straighten up. "I'll be fine soon" he said.

Daryun nodded to encourage him, although it was clear that the man would have taken days before he could even hope to get on horseback.

And Peshawar was so far away.

"Are you sure they will let us go, sir?" asked the soldier of Qbad.

Daryun turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"These people" said the man, "they saved us is true, but we do not know why they did it. And then, they too, like the ghouls, should not have been so far south."

The movement of Ay Jana withdrawing, almost hiding behind Shabrang, drew Daryun's attention, but the General of Parsia did not turn and continued to face the other man.

"Your name, soldier," he ordered dryly.

"Tharas, sir" replied the man without hesitation.

"Speak more clearly, Tharas."

The soldier looked at Ay Jana and then turned his gaze to the old man and the child who were close to them. The boy, full of wonder and fear, watched Shabrang tower over him.

"In addition to ghouls and necromancers, there were also unknown warriors. Men of some people never seen before. We do not know who our enemies are, sir, but we know we have fallen into an ambush. A trap. Who tells us that these people are not allied with those who have deceived us?"

"But they saved us," Khorask said.

"Yes, but they also took us far away from Peshawar, taking us with them further north," Tharas answered. "They might want to use us for another trap," he watched at Daryun, but quickly looked down. "They may want to use you, sir, to draw other Peshawar men out of the fortress, because, you know sir, his Majesty Arslan and general Kishward will never stop to seek you."

The suspect about the Paziki people caught Daryun by surprise. He had not thought of such an eventuality, and although it was hard to belive for him, there were still many things that did not fit. He liked it or not, Tharas could be right.

Maybe. Or maybe not.

"We will return to Peshawar as soon as Khorask will be able to ride again" he said, without giving an answer to Tharas' doubts. "In any case, even if the Paziki will want to continue their journey further north, we will not follow them" concluded. He turned to Ay Jana, who still smoothed the snout of an unusually meek Shabrang.

It was impossible for him to belive she could betray them, but could he be sure? After what had happened, after seeing the necromancers of a demon king guide the ghouls to the massacre of his men, what could still be considered certain?

Suddenly, Ay Jana looked up at him. If she sensed his uncertainty or not, Daryun could not know it, yet he looked back at the young woman, looking for a negation of Tharas's suspicions in the clarity of his irises.

And he did not notice the dark expression with which the soldier of Qbad was staring at them both.


End file.
